Waiting for Wowbagger
by TheRimmerConnection
Summary: Arthur is having a bad dream. At least, he thinks he is. In fact, it seems to be turning into a good dream, much against his wishes. But then again... ZaphodArthur, ZaphodFord, FordArthur hurrah!
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: Much as I would adore to be able to call them mine, they're not. They have just popped over from Douglas' etherial place to swap stories, have a bit of tea, maybe a cake or that bit of betelgeusian somethingorother I've had lurking at the back of the kitchen cupboard for years (I'm not sure about the sell-by date – the mice have been at that corner). I'll let them go when we've finished, honest._

**Chapter 1 – Inclusive of that unpleasant cold and vacuous feeling you get when you have to get up at some unearthly hour of the morning to catch a train.**

Arthur Dent sat up at high speed, bashed his head on something he had a vague feeling shouldn't be there, fell back to the pillow, thought: 'I'll be late for work again', tried sitting up again, succeeded, swung his feet out of bed, and staggered towards the bathroom rubbing his eyes with his wrist. A dull 'thunk' and a very restrained and throaty 'ow' would have signified to any casual bystander that the bathroom door was not where he had expected it to be. To Arthur, it signified the beginning of a day-long headache, and the need for a reappraisal of his situation. In the darkness, he lost his balance and sat down on a floor that was not quite as warm and carpety and rather a lot more cold and metallic than he thought it should be.

Sitting on the floor with an increasingly chilly bottom and a lump on his forehead, Arthur thought. It _had_ been his alarm that had gone off, hadn't it? He wasn't so sure any more. 'Wait, Arthur', he thought, 'it'll all come back to you'. The unpleasant realisation soon came that no, it had not been his alarm, just a dream. That was all. A dream about being late for work, an alarm ringing and still being late. The sort of dream that can propel you to the bathroom at three a.m. and get you down the stairs and pouring the milk on your cornflakes before you realise you've been duped again.

Arthur sighed. Alright, what time was it? How long did he have before the alarm really went off? Would it be possible to go back and have a decent night's sleep, or was it, irritatingly, about five-thirty and not worth the effort? He looked around for the glow of digital numbers and they failed to show themselves. He had obviously walked in the wrong direction, and was now out of sight of the numbers and had no idea in which direction the bed might lie. He sighed again.

There was a sound like the grumpy harrumph of somebody who has heard a man get out of bed at three in the morning, crash into the wall, sit down hard, sigh, and then, just to make sure everyone really was awake, sigh again. Arthur froze. That sound should not be in his bedroom. Even in his seriously befuddled state he could remember that much.

He thought again. What did one do if one heard that noise in one's bedroom? The best answer was probably 'switch on the light', but since Arthur didn't have a clue where the light switch might be lurking, he was going to have to think of something else. The next answer, in the clear light of day, would obviously be 'ask who's there'. However, in the darkness of a room that was already behaving oddly, somehow that didn't seem like a very prudent course of action. That was, in fact, the action most likely to cause swarms of terrifying monsters to come out from their hiding place under the bed, glow nastily, grab Arthur's ankles and...well, he didn't want to think about 'and'.

If Arthur had learnt one thing from his time as a small boy, it was that the only safe place in a haunted or otherwise monster-infested room was the bed. You get in, you pull the covers right over your head, you check for air holes round the side and block them, and you wait. Eventually, when everything has quietened down and the monsters have failed to spot you through your high-tog duvet, you stick your head out, place it on the cold pillow and go swiftly back to sleep in the certain knowledge that this time you outwitted them.

He stuck out his hand and waved it in front of him cautiously. After a few blind passes, his fingers touched the wall; it felt...unfamiliar. Nevertheless, logically, the wall must have been directly perpendicular to his line of travel, so if he walked straight away from it, he must, sooner or later, hit the bed. He got up, flattened his back against the wall, and shuffled forwards, his hands washing around at knee height. After a while, he began to feel that he must have walked right past the bed and must now be heading for the wall. Well, when he hit it he would just have to turn round and try again. He raised his hands to feel for the wall and instantly screamed in pain as his shins connected hard with the sharp metal edge of the bed-frame.

The light snapped on and Arthur's unfocused and light-shocked eyes tried hard to stop squinting and focus on the figure that had just sat up in his bed.

* * *

_A/N: I haven't a clue where this is going, it seems to be leaking out of my head without informing my brain. Another chapter is already trying to get out, but after that, who knows... Please review and I'll see if I can't pin it down somehow – I only had the title, I've had that for months, very pleased with it, but no story to go with it, so I'm not going to stop it now it's decided to come out!_


	2. Chapter 2

_As always, thanks for the review, they make me very happy! Unfortunately I have not yet found the door to a broom closet. I'm sure there is one around somewhere - stands to reason on a great big ship like that._

**Chapter 2 – How things that happen in the middle of the night are best worked out in the morning when you're actually awake**

"Arrgh!" Arthur stumbled backwards, tripping over a pile of clothes he had avoided on his previous perambulations, and sat down rather more heavily than he had the first time. The reality hit him that he had not really been awake until now, and it it was for this reason that his surroundings, as much as the figure in the bed, had surprised him. He was not at home.

Of course he was not at home. He hadn't been at home for some considerable time now, and given that home was now a disconnected collection of atoms getting away from each other as quickly as they could, it was unlikely that he'd ever be at home again.

"Yellow." He muttered to no-one in particular.

"Say what?" Asked the figure in the bed. Arthur looked up. Now that his brain had had time to get itself up to date with most of the things he needed to know, like 'where am I?', 'why am I here?' and 'how much of this is real?'(answers: definitely the Heart of Gold, though not sure which cabin; no idea; and um...) , he felt that he could give his full attention over to the confusion and rising panic that were the result of seeing this figure in a bed he had recently vacated. It didn't help very much. Arthur's mind was racing. How did this happen? Was it still a dream, or was there something he'd forgotten? He was coming round to the conclusion that it was definitely the latter when the figure spoke again,

"I said, what?" Arthur wanted to answer; he really, really wanted to answer, but somehow, he couldn't. He was finding it rather disconcerting that the figure was at a strange angle, because although part of it had decided to get up and talk to Arthur, one of the heads had refused to be woken and was still trying to lie on the pillow. As Zaphod made more of an effort to get up and look at him properly, he was forced to put one of his right arms under his second head and support it until he was upright enough for it to fall forward onto his chest. His naked chest, Arthur observed, his panic levels going up yet another notch.

'Get a grip of yourself, Arthur.' he told himself firmly, 'There is an explanation for this. There is reason why Zaphod has been in bed with you. There is also, no doubt, a perfectly satisfactory reason why you can't remember a thing...' His mind tried a bit harder, 'It's probably Zaphod's fault, not yours, and it's probably perfectly innocent and normal.' He stopped again. It was the 'probably' bit that got him worried. But at least he was controlling the panic now.

"Zaphod..." He tried. It was a good start. It got to the nub of the problem. Except that Zaphod probably wouldn't realise that. He was about to make a stab at continuing the sentence, when the sleeping head gave a terrific snore and Zaphod slapped himself hard on the cheek. The head yelled and shot into an upright position,

"I'm up, I'm up..." It said, blinking heavily. It looked at Arthur and rolled its eye. Zaphod shook himself and looked steadily at Arthur now with all the eyes at his command.

"Yeah?" Said his better-prepared head. Arthur sucked on his lip and tried again,

" Um...could you remind me how I got here?" Three eyes blinked at him,

"Your parents got unlucky? Or you did something strange to my semi-cousin so that he brought you along for the ride? Or...I don't know...something to do with forty-two?

"Forty-two?" Said Arthur, confused. "No, I mean, here, in this room, with you...in that bed...at this time in the morning...whatever time that is." Zaphod looked at his watch,

"Three o'clock." He said, "Which is why I'd like to know why you're up clattering about and disturbing my beauty sleep." Arthur frowned,

"I'm not sure I understand. You shouldn't be here at all. I didn't know there was anyone to disturb."

"What do you mean 'You shouldn't be here at all'? Hey Earthman, be a little hoopy about this couldja? This is my bedroom."

"Then what am I doing in it?" Arthur said, as calmly as he could, which wasn't very.

"Don't ask me. I mean, it's nice to have the company and all that, but you know, you're not my first choice." Arthur felt rather insulted – not that he wanted to be Zaphod's first choice, nor second nor third if it came to it, but he thought that could have been left unsaid.

"Did you get me in here?" He asked. ('Why don't I remember?' he asked himself frantically.) "Was I drinking? I was in here for purely practical reasons...wasn't I?" Zaphod seemed to lose interest. He lay back on the pillows; his right-hand head immediately recommenced its loud snoring.

"I told you, I don't know, monkey-man. I was expecting Trillian and you turned up instead. But it's a little insulting, doncha think, to say that you don't remember coming to my room at all – I mean, that should be an event, baby!" Arthur shook himself: there was something very odd going on here. But, first things first...

"So I wasn't in here doing anything...else. I was just sleeping, wasn't I?" He finished hopefully, a miniature yoke of oxen suddenly racing across his brow, ploughing slightly wonky furrows in their haste to get the job done. Zaphod lifted himself from the pillows again, his face lighting up with a wicked smile that made Arthur want to run and hide; but preferably somewhere where he could still peek, because it was also the sort of smile that makes your insides suddenly announce their intention to enter the nearest salsa dancing competition.

"I wouldn't say that..." He said in a naughtily soft voice, so that Arthur had to look at him hard to check he'd really said it.

"Look, I really don't have the energy to cope with working this out right now. I've decided not to think about it. And now, if you don't mind, I'm going to go and find somewhere else to sleep." He got up and went to the door. It didn't open.

"Open up." Said Arthur. The door stayed resolutely shut. Arthur pushed on it hard. It sighed. "Why won't you open?" He moaned. The door cleared its throat, as if preparing to read a speech,

"Although it would usually be the deepest pleasure of my life to open for you; on this occasion I have been instructed not to let anybody out of this room until I am requested to by someone on the outside." It paused. "Share and enjoy." It added as an afterthought.

Zaphod was out of the bed and standing next to Arthur, in front of the door, in a second. His still-sleeping head lolled unpleasantly on his shoulder and he flicked at it irritably. "What do you mean, you won't open? Hey, I'm in charge here, if I order you to let the monkey out of the room, you'll do it." Arthur would almost have sworn that the door shook its head. "Open up." Zaphod tried again. "Alright, who put you up to this?" The door remained silent. Zaphod kicked it. It still failed to make a sound. Zaphod walked back to the bed with the step of someone who would really like to hobble across, clutching their foot, but who knows just how un-cool that would look, so is putting a brave face on it. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked at Arthur.

"Well, looks like I'm stuck with you." Arthur nodded mutely.

"Who did it though?" He asked, half to himself, "There's only Ford, Trillian and Marvin on board. Or Eddie I suppose, but I don't think it would be in his programming. Marvin wouldn't make the effort, so that leaves Trillian or Ford. Now Trillian, though I hate to admit it, would probably rather be in here with you, am I right?" He said, now speaking directly to Zaphod who smiled that deadly smile again and turned his head away coquettishly,

"Best bang since the big one, baby." Arthur stared,

"But that only leaves Ford. Why would Ford do this?"

"Who knows." Zaphod sighed, starting to lose interest again. "Probably for a joke."

"But why don't I remember?"

"Because your head is full? Wouldn't surprise me. You ask too many questions. Now either talk about something more interesting or go back to sleep and let me get mine." Arthur's plough-furrows increased in depth until you could have planted asparagus and not had to worry about banking them up at all.

"Doesn't it bother you?" He asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed into which Zaphod had now crawled.

"Not if you let me sleep, or...well, hey!" Arthur turned his head accusingly.

"No. Whatever you're thinking. No."

"Not even if I'm nice to you?"

"You wouldn't know how." Arthur stared forward, wondering why he had said that. Whatever it was that Zaphod might be suggesting, and he had a pretty good idea – he'd heard some funny things from Ford, the veracity of which he had no wish to check – he wasn't interested. He had no intention of ever becoming part of Zaphod's list of conquests. For one thing, he was strictly women-only when it came to the bedroom; for another, he found the alien man not only disturbing to look at, but also highly offensive. He wound Arthur up: he had effectively stolen Trillian from him, he had the most insulting range of vocabulary to call on for use in describing Arthur, which seemed to prevent him ever learning Arthur's name, and he could be relied upon to make Arthur feel insignificant and unwanted at every turn. In fact, it was Arthur's firm belief that if Zaphod had had time to really consider anyone but himself, he would have hated Arthur. But it was odd how nice he actually could be...when he wanted something. Anyway, when it came to sexual liaisons with people with whom you didn't want to have sexual liaisons, Arthur would much rather it was Ford, even if he had locked him in with Za... Now, where had that thought come from?

Arthur was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he didn't notice the first hand that snaked round his waist and laid itself warmly on his lower stomach. It was a mark of how tired he was that the second hand also managed to inveigle itself onto his person without really registering with him. However, even in one of Arthur's dullest moments, he would have noticed the third hand, which fluttered lightly over his shoulder. At that moment, he would have leapt to his feet, he would have shouted and started to hammer on the door...he _would_, he assured himself. Except that at that moment the third hand made a dive for his right nipple and started to roll it expertly between its fingers.

It was at that point that it finally registered with Arthur that he was completely naked. He would have screamed, he would have delivered a sharp, swift elbow to Zaphod's stomach, he would have reached for the sheets to cover himself up...he _would_, no, honestly, he would, but... well, a Betelgeusian whose other head has just woken up, and who can therefore whisper seductively in both your ears at once, can rather throw one off one's stride. Arthur contented himself with looking surly and unwelcoming and tried to quash the little flickers of curiosity that surfaced as he heard, in stereo, the deliberately enticing words:

"Best bang since the big one, baby."

_Will Arthur pull himself together before suffering a fate almost, but not quite entirely unlike death? Why is he locked in with Zaphod, and who actually did it? Why is Zaphod so fickle? and what does the future hold for the recalcitrant door? Please review to find out – I think that I possibly might maybe even know where I'm heading now!_


	3. Chapter 3

_Yes, dear readers, the rating had to go up. I did warn you. When it comes down to it, an author is no match for Zaphod Beeblebrox when he decides he wants something!_

**Chapter 3 – In which a point is proved, and Arthur makes a valid contribution**

Arthur swallowed and did his best not to look round, but the fact that warm flesh was now pressing closely against his back as Zaphod increased his grip, was not helping matters. He could feel it against his spine, a silky caress of skin that somehow didn't feel quite the way he remembered it from past encounters with human females. It was a little too... that is, it was very... well, you know how when you touch a... Okay, it was just different, somehow.

Arthur had a very strong urge to touch that skin with his fingers, to investigate its properties more fully. However, he was also determined not to give in to this. The moment he did, he would have lost what little dignity he felt remained to him, and given what he had already lost recently, he didn't think he'd cope very well with that.

On his shoulder blades, there were two little prodding sensations, he considered the options; there weren't any. Zaphod's nipples felt like someone was poking him with a pair of chopsticks, but his own weren't far behind: Zaphod's third hand was playing merry havoc with them. If anybody could be considered an expert in nipple-tweaking, Arthur thought, surprised for a moment that he still had the lucidity to think a complex thought like this, then Zaphod would be a Nobel winner. He seemed to know just how hard to squeeze, just when to roll, just when to pinch. Occasional lazy circles on Arthur's chest with his other fingers were enough to make Arthur gulp and try to persuade his body to get up and make a stand for its rights. Unfortunately, his body wasn't listening to him. In fact, it was steadily coming closer to betraying him absolutely, to showing off what he didn't want Zaphod to know: that despite every curse he could throw at himself, a renegade bit of his brain was saying 'Wow!' and having a bloody good time.

As if the third hand wasn't enough of a tease, Zaphod's other hands were doing their best to completely destroy Arthur's composure. The left hand was stroking from Arthur's waist to the crease inside his thigh, light as breathing. As it brushed just inside his hip, a gloriously ambiguous shiver ran up and down Arthur's nerves so that it was all he could do not to jerk wildly. Meanwhile, the second hand was still messing around at Arthur's jawline, pushing playfully at the stubby little emerging bristles, and trailing cool fingers down the side of his neck, tilting his head easily this way and that with only the merest suggestion of pressure. As his head went further and further to the side, the dopier head moved in, nibbling at his right ear, muttering things Arthur couldn't quite make out, and breathing oddly fragrant breaths across his cheek. Arthur screwed up his face and willed himself to concentrate enough to protest,

"Just hold on will you? You think I'm just going to let you do this? Well, you're not all _that_ special you know."

"No?" Asked Zaphod softly in Arthur's left ear,

"No." Replied Arthur, firmly. "You behaved very, very poorly the first time we encountered one another; you needn't think I've forgotten that."

"Hey!" Said Zaphod, smoothly, infuriating Arthur, who really, really wanted an excuse to get up and yell at him.

"Furthermore, I am not in the habit of...of sleeping with men, and I do not intend to start with you just because I've been locked in a room with you."

"Why not?" The gently delivered question threw Arthur completely off his guard.

"Because...because, well, for a start, I know for a f..." He was forced to pause as the third hand decided he was far too much in control and gave him another mind-blowing tweak. He paused, collected himself, and continued, "I know for a fact that you don't like me, you think I'm stupid and primitive and barely worthy of notice, and if we weren't stuck like this, you wouldn't look at me twice... Why would I want to... to do anything with someone I know regards me in that light?" If Arthur had looked round, he would have seen a look of confusion flicker across Zaphod's face as he struggled with the fact that this ape-descendant needed this explanation.

"Because I'm giving you the opportunity of a lifetime." He said at last; then a grin spread itself across his left head, "I'm Zaphod Beeblebrox, baby!" He stopped, secure in his conviction that this was enough. His hands went back to work, and made sure that, for the moment, it was indeed enough. Arthur had a vague feeling that he should be stopping this again, that he should be asking more questions, like 'Why do _you_ want to do this if you don't like me', or 'What has your name got to do with it?' But the renegade bit of his brain had just won an assault on the sane regions, and guerilla troops were moving in, clambering over the neurons that would have helped in standing him up; flattening with home-made grenades the little look-out points that were all ready to send out fresh messengers to his speech-centres and make him complain bitterly at his treatment. In fact, the only thing left in Arthur's head that was still capable of free thought was probably the Babel fish in his ear.

A tingle of rough skin was the sole of Zaphod's foot rubbing down the side of Arthur's thigh. He looked down as the foot slid past his knee, and skin sealed to skin all the way down his leg. Zaphod was frighteningly close, his right-hand head pulling maddeningly at the tender flesh of Arthur's neck, while the other head continued where the right had left off, by murmuring in his other ear. Maybe because he was getting this murmur straight through the Babel fish, Arthur could understand a little. 'My God!' he thought, 'that's filthy.' Some sensibility from what seemed like a lifetime ago struggled to make him feel indignant, but the battle was lost, and he just leant into the barely-moving lips and closed his eyes.

Another foot scraped its way down the side of Arthur's other leg. His eyes opened wide as he felt Zaphod shift in closer, dabbing light touches of abdomen on back. Zaphod was wider than most humans, it was as if his ribcage had been stretched sideways to make room for all the uncomfortably placed tendons and other anatomical anomalies associated with an extra arm. The upshot was that when he leant against Arthur, he seemed to envelop him. What with that, and the two heads breathing sweet nothings (and not quite so nothings) in both his ears, Arthur felt severely under attack, but couldn't honestly say that he wasn't enjoying it.

Given the point to which Zaphod had already, and easily, brought him, Arthur was fast coming to the conclusion that Eccentrica Gallumbits knew what she was talking about. As far as Arthur was concerned from past experience, they hadn't really started yet; but what Zaphod had already achieved would have taken most of the girls Arthur had known a good half hour, maybe with a romantic meal beforehand, just to get the mood right; a few drinks, some soft music...and perhaps, just perhaps, a cheeky, giggly little look at a film he would usually be ashamed to admit he owned. Then, they might have got somewhere, provided he really liked her. Zaphod had bypassed all that as easily as if Arthur was so deeply in love that he was in a permanent state of arousal. He had swept away his protests like feathers and somehow made him feel slightly bad that he had ever rejected his advances. He Knew What He Was Doing.

This was confirmed the next second, when Arthur, giving up on his resolve not to look at Zaphod, turned his head and looked the left-hand head in the eyes. A smile broke across the face,

"I _knew_ you'd look at me eventually!" Zaphod whooped, excited as a child with a new toy. His left hand stopped teasing its way around the margins of Arthur's groin and came up to help the second hand with the caressing of Arthur's chin. Moving in closer, Zaphod brushed his lips against Arthur's. He pulled back, looking slightly coy,

"Going to help?" He asked, his beautifully groomed eyebrows waggling furiously, Arthur shrugged – he didn't seem to be able to locate his vocal cords just now – and took a sharp breath as Zaphod leaned in again and planted a soft kiss on his upper lip, grasping it between his own, playing with it for a moment, before opening his mouth and pressing his two lips, soft as velvet, directly over Arthur's own. Arthur squeaked as he felt a tongue run delicately along his closed mouth, but hand-two was in his hair, rubbing soothing patterns across his scalp, and he sighed, and a delicious, powerful tongue was in him. Zaphod tasted of cocoa and 'nice' biscuits – two things Arthur was pretty sure he could never have had. His tongue was a demon, resting languorously in Arthur's lower jaw, before flicking up and exploring, teasing Arthur's own tongue into action.

The left hand was on the move again, grasping Arthur by the shoulder and turning him round. Arthur was at a terribly uncomfortable angle now, twisted almost backwards from the waist up, but it didn't matter. He pulled his legs up and knelt up in between Zaphod's legs, then, still caught in the kiss, he brought his legs over Zaphod's until he was sat in his lap. With anybody else, this would have been a very awkward move, involving bruised thighs and apologies, but not with Zaphod. In the back of his mind, it was clear that somehow Zaphod himself had arranged this, but for the life of him, Arthur couldn't think how he had made it happen. He gave a mental shrug and wrapped his legs around Zaphod's waist, where he thinned out considerably.

A thought occurred to Arthur, and he opened his eyes. To his surprise, Zaphod's eyes were open too. They sparkled at Arthur in a way that was perhaps a little too mischievous, and Zaphod pulled back from the kiss, leaving Arthur feeling rather bereft.

"What?" Asked Zaphod, the smile never leaving his face,

"I..." said Arthur, before his vocal cords vanished again. He looked down at Zaphod's right-hand side, then back at his face.

"Sure, play." Said Zaphod, inexplicably, and his second head caught Arthur's lips for a kiss of its own. The first head got back to nibbling at Arthur's ear, and Arthur just had time to register that Zaphod's other head had a mouth that tasted of éclairs and ice cream, before he realised that Zaphod had just given him carte blanche to... He put his hand up to touch the fingers entwined in his hair, grateful for the lazier kissing of the second head, and let his own fingers follow the arm down from wrist to elbow to armpit, and down. His breathing was erratic, the third hand was still tweaking and rolling and smoothing and... Arthur's hand stroked down from the armpit and found the second shoulder. He felt back up, feeling the distance, and the bizarre formation where armpit made the transition, not into smooth side skin and ribs, but into well-toned shoulder and slowly writhing arm-muscles. He ran his hand down the third arm and back up again. Well, that was one anatomical mystery solved. He brought his hand back up and found his fingers caught in the mass of long, bushy hair that cascaded from each of Zaphod's heads. He caressed the back of Zaphod's right head, pulling it closer in to him. The skull was just slightly the wrong shape, perhaps a little too curved this way and a little too flat that way, but it was warm and silky-clean and nice to hold. His other hand swept up Zaphod's left side, ignoring the perfectly humanoid limb-attachment on this side, and carrying on up to the necks. He smoothed his palm round the back of the left-hand neck, then pushed on into the parabolic sweep of the join between the two.

Zaphod shrieked as sprang back from Arthur. Arthur started in panic: had he done something terrible? But Zaphod was breathing heavily, his mouth open, twisting up in the most endearing grin Arthur had ever seen. He looked up at Arthur, then flicked his eyes away again for a moment, before grabbing him and kissing him with such passion, that Arthur thought his head might explode. After a minute or so, Zaphod let Arthur go again, and looked coyly up at him.

"That," He said, huskily, "is one _hot_ erogenous zone, baby. A little warning would be good if you're going to do that again." Arthur looked at him in wide-eyed astonishment. "I mean, it really blows my mind, and I swear, you don't want me to lose that, before I've finished with you." He put two of his hands on Arthur's shoulders and pushed him down to the bed. Then, reaching behind him, he carefully unwrapped Arthur's legs from behind his back and slid out from between his legs.

The third hand swapped with the second its playful torments, and joined the first in running firmly and repeatedly across Arthur's hips. Arthur could feel warm air breathing on the soft folds of skin in his groin, and he wriggled slightly as fluffy strands of hair fell glidingly across his midriff and thighs, tickling deliciously. A mouth was on the most sensitive skin inside his thigh, nipping and licking, and giving out little irritated grunts as the other head pushed it to one side in order to get a better angle for dealing with Arthur's embarrassingly (he felt) eager erection. After a few moments' battle, the heads sorted out a compromise arrangement that largely consisted of moving Arthur's legs wider apart. Arthur moaned as lips tweaked seven kinds of ecstasy from the tender, engorged flesh. He moaned still more as a tongue wrapped itself around him, spiralling up and down, before a tender kiss right on the tip was searingly enhanced by an attack on the very inch of skin where thigh met groin by the other head. Zaphod's hands were working harder than ever, one had slipped under Arthur's right buttock, while the other was resting on his lower abdomen, pressing down with a firm palm and splayed fingers, which for some reason did amazing things to Arthur's insides, so that they flipped a few times of their own accord.

Up and down Zaphod worked, never taking him into his mouth, but teasing his lips half and three-quarters of the way around the shaft, letting the breath from his nostrils cool the moist skin he left behind. Then, with a suddenly abrasive tongue, he licked long trails from tip to base, and on, down, past the huddle of sperm waiting impatiently in their perfectly controlled environment, and on to the soft, damp patch of skin below. Arthur gasped as the pressure left his stomach and was transferred to his aching erection. A grasp of the hand, two tiny, sucking kisses from two pairs of lips, and Arthur was gone, a bolt of pure pleasure shooting though him. Zaphod laughed with Arthur's sperm as they shot into the air, but kept on laughing without them as they sobered up in the realization that they'd just brought a one way ticket to nowhere.

Arthur opened one eye and looked down past his heaving chest at the giggling head between his legs. He smiled nervously as the other head started to suck and lick him clean.

"What did I tell you, huh?" Asked Zaphod, and dragging his other head away, he crawled back up Arthur's body and planted another kiss on the Earthman's startled face.

As the second head buried itself in Arthur's neck, Zaphod brought his arms down to Arthur's legs again, the third arm supporting his weight, and pulled them up round his waist again. Then, reaching out to a niche in his bed-head, he did something Arthur couldn't quite see. As he leant down to kiss him once more, Arhur felt the strange sensation of a well oiled finger stroking down between his buttocks. His mind made the effort to snap back into action.

"I don't think..." He slurred through Zaphod's lips.

"Shhh." Said Zaphod, unhelpfully.

"But I..."

"Give over will you" Said Zaphod, pulling away far enough to look straight into Arthur's worried eyes, "I'm _good_ baby. You don't wanna miss this, okay?" Arthur gave up and nodded mutely. Zaphod was right: he didn't.

There was a reassignment of roles as Zaphod's more casual head took over on the kissing front, so that by a considerable contortion of his neck, his first head could look down at what he was doing with the rest of his body.

There was a hand on Arthur's shoulder blade, pulling him slightly off the bed and pushing his bottom into the mattress, there was another on the bed next to him, its wrist taut against Arthur's side as it supported Zaphod over him. The third hand was under him, it pulled him up, it rearranged him with soft caresses, it soothed his panic-tautened muscles, and let him down again, everso gently, onto more flesh. Arthur's little 'feep' of shock was lost into the second head's mouth and suppressed further by the attack of the first head on his collar-bone.

Zaphod was moving inside Arthur, finding his space, choosing his position. He let Arthur's shoulder fall back on the bed and let his hands wander instead up and down his sides, playing intricate little tunes on Arthur's ribs, which tingled with overcharged eroticism until Arthur was forced to grind his head back into the pillow and squeeze his eyes tight shut to hold himself together. The Zaphod's hips started to move, and Arthur forgot even to try as the ramming force pushed deep into him, sending fireworks up and down his spine, and joining skin with skin in all his most sensitive places. It felt like somebody was blowing up a balloon full of pure, undiluted joy inside him, and it was going to burst soon, or burst him.

Zaphod was slowly getting faster, losing himself to the rhythm, his hands grasping at Arthur's sides and pressing on his chest. Through the blurry haze of sexual intoxication, Arthur perceived an opportunity. He was about to lose it again, he could feel it, muscles he hadn't known he possessed were clenching randomly around the delicate bits of the man on top of him. He slipped his hand up from its slippery resting place on Zaphod's second arm, and let it snake around the back of Zaphod's neck and back into that dangerous valley between.

Arthur felt the effect like an electric shock. With a spasm of movement, Zaphod slammed into him, making Arthur's world explode with light and shimmering something and synthetic happiness. Zaphod's heads flung themselves backwards, tugging Arthur's trapped hand with them, and screamed with wild abandon as Zaphod's testicles gave a silent whoop and ushered their hopeful brood with great force, out into the small, narrow world.

Having no choice but to hang on, Arthur was compelled to keep pressure on the back of Zaphod's neck. As the moment passed, the force brought Zaphod's heads straight back down to Arthur's, and he kissed him sleepily,

"Did you do that on purpose?" He asked, with wonder in his voice. Arthur nodded. "Hey, that was pretty hoopy, Monkey-man." He gathered Arthur into his arms and looked him straight in the eyes,

"So. Not that your opinion matters at all," he said, between breaths, "but what did you think, huh?" Arthur squinted at him, trying to ignore the insult, because he couldn't help admitting that he had never quite experienced anything quite as wonderful as that before.

"Um...yes." He said, lamely, unable to think of a way to express what he had just felt. Zaphod's eyes drilled into him (or two of them did, the second head had already drifted off into a contented sleep). Arthur thought hard, he was in a very awkward position: Zaphod had him entirely at his mercy. But then he realized it was easy. It wasn't even a lie...as far as he knew, and given the limited range of his experience:

"Best...best bang since the big one..." He trailed off. With a triumphant grin on his face, Zaphod let his first head drift happily off to sleep.

Arthur was just letting himself do the same, when there was a sigh and a 'thank-you' from the door. He opened his eyes, then opened them a lot more. A dishevelled Ford Prefect was standing in the door, his whole body shaking.

_What emotion is currently vibrating Ford? Will Arthur feel differently about Zaphod in the morning. Will Zaphod feel differently about Arthur in the morning? Who locked that blasted door? And what will happen when everybody has to start talking again? Reviews are the encouraging little massage on my muse's shoulders!_


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Didn't really quite make it to the next morning yet, too much going on in the meantime. Many thanks for the reviews, they help so much :) S V, you're a treasure, and Kirke - what an honour!_

_I swear Wowbagger will make an appearance at some point - but in the meantime, you _are_ still waiting for him!_

**Chapter 4 – Where Arthur proves that the heating on the _Heart of Gold_ is more than adequate**

Ford seemed to be rather disoriented, and quite worried too.

"Zaph?" He called hesitantly across the dark room, the lights having flicked off as Zaphod's second head hit the pillow. The two heads started to snore in harmony. Arthur punched him in the side and he yelped.

"Zaph, old pal?" Ford called again, sleepy overtones making his voice rather indistinct.

"Wha?" Muttered the left-hand head. Ford started towards the bed,

"I thought I heard...you didn't hear anything just now did you? Like we had a Vrill on board...Only, that thought kind of freaks me out at this time of night."

"I didn't hear anything...why? D'you think we have? Wild!" Zaphod was more awake now, and sat up slightly, dropping Arthur from a height of a several inches as he realised he'd brought him up with him.

"Oof." Said Arthur, involuntarily.

"Who's that?" Said Ford, coming closer, "Trillian?"

"No it's not bloody Trillian!" Arthur said, loudly and with vigour, feeling rather indignant that he had just been dropped quite so heavily. "It's me, and I'm quite happy to leave, right now. I would very much like to know, in the morning, how I came to be stuck here in the first place, if it's not too much trouble." He got out of the bed, forgetting the fact that he was still naked, marched past Ford, and stormed off down the corridor, still muttering.

Ford looked at Zaphod, his mouth slightly open. It wriggled into more of an o-shape, then back out to an uncertain smile,

"Er...Zaphod, what was Arthur doing in bed with you?"

"Sleeping, I guess." Said Zaphod. "Just now, at any rate."

"No, I mean, why was he in there?"

"I don't know. He doesn't know. He just woke up next to me and...hey!" Ford looked slightly distressed,

"You didn't...did you?"

"What?" Asked Zaphod, the picture of innocence,

"You didn't...do him did you?" Zaphod's shy little smile returned and he looked away. Ford sighed, looking sadder than the sigh.

"Zarking fardwarks Zaphod, why? You don't even like him." Zaphod looked back at him, eyebrows waggling mischievously,

"So I was bored! Anyway, you do. Isn't that enough?"

"I like him as a...a friend."

"Right. Sure. Look, Ford baby, are you going to stand there and chat all night, or are we going to have a serious discussion about my reasoning, or are you going to go away and let me get the sleep I haven't really managed to snatch yet, or are you going to hop in here and make up for it?" Ford looked at him,

"Zaphod, that's in very poor taste."

"Hey, you've been spending too much time with the monkeys." Replied Zaphod. Ford turned and left the room. The door sighed closed and Zaphod lay back on the pillows, smirking to himself as the lights went out again. Hell, yeah, he was alone, but... The door opened again with a satisfied 'Glad to be of service', and Ford stood silhouetted in the light from the corridor,

"Zaph, I swear it sounded like we've got a Vrill on board. It's sort of lonely in my room. Can I...?" Zaphod smiled warmly in the darkness,

"Sure kid, hop in. Knew you'd come back. Monkey-man not an option yet then?" Ford climbed into the bed and hit his semi-cousin hard on the arm.

"Ow baby, that hurt!"

"Stop being so coarse then." Said Ford, and wriggled his hand between Zaphod's two right arms.

* * *

Arthur woke with a "Hoahh", and sat up in the darkness. That _had_ all been a dream...hadn't it? Of course it had.

"Thank goodness for that." He muttered to himself. "Ow." He said, as he shuffled in the bed. Bits of him were sore that weren't usually sore. "Oh no!" He groaned and flopped back onto the pillow.

"Now logically," he thought, as he lay there, trying not to apply to much pressure to certain parts of himself, "I must be able to work out exactly what happened. Facts, Arthur: what happened? Right...um...I woke up. No; need to go back before that. Can't. Okay, let's state what we know and try to work back from there. I woke up then. I'd had a dream, I wasn't really awake, I bumped into the wall, I tried to get back to bed and I woke up Zaphod. I realised where I was and tried to leave, but couldn't because someone outside the room had locked us in together. For some reason. I went back to the bed to try and figure it out, and then...well. Quite. Then I almost got back to sleep, but Ford came in. And he didn't expect me to be there...or he did a very good impression of being surprised. So we have a number of questions to ask: Who locked us in the room; why did they do it; and why do I not remember a thing about how I came to be there. That's very good. Perhaps I'd better write them down." Having completed his little monologue, Arthur fumbled around for the lamp at his bedside, located the switch and turned it on.

* * *

Zaphod inclined his left chin towards Ford's head. 

"You know baby, I think I might know what the Vrill noise was."

"You do?" Asked Ford sleepily, no longer really that concerned about the presence or not of such a terrifying creature.

"You know, your monkey-man might just have a little bit of intelligence after all."

"Well, he's not bad for his species...what did he do?"

"He found that little spot just down in the ol' inter-head highway there."

"I always knew he had roving hands on the quiet..."

"Hey, listen will you? Anyway, he found this earlier, while I was just playing around a bit, you know? But he got around to using it just when it mattered. I figure that took a bit of thinking."

"What's that got to do with the Vrill?" Ford asked, snuggling down further into Zaphod's chest.

"Well, I'm guessing it was me." Said Zaphod, with a hint of pride, suggesting that he thought 'sounding like a Vrill' was one of the great achievements for any being.

"I've never heard you make a noise like that. I have heard you make some pretty strange noises, I'll grant you, but you can't honestly be saying that Arthur, my Ar...that Arthur caused you to make a noise like that. I ought to know."

"You never did that to me. Believe me. I don't mind you checking up on my assertions though. I've pretty much given up on the sleep thing tonight." Ford pulled himself up sharply onto his elbow and looked at where he thought Zaphod's heads might be.

"You're kidding."

"Why?"

"You just had Arthur and now you think I'll come just as quietly?"

"Uh, not that quietly, actually." Said Zaphod, a grin in his voice.

"Alright. But...don't tell him.

* * *

Arthur blinked in the light and searched for a pen. Damn, where was his dressing gown? There was a pen in the pocket. He always had a pen; he prided himself on it. But the dressing gown was nowhere to be seen. He lay back again and stared at the ceiling. So, the dressing gown must be somewhere else...good start Arthur. It must be either in Zaphod's room, though he didn't remember seeing it there, or somewhere else. If it wasn't in Zaphod's room, then wherever it was might give him a clue to what had happened in that mystery time before he woke up in bed with an alien.

"Ugh." He said to himself. He got out of bed and looked down.

"Ah." He said. "Clothes." He looked around. Clothes were not lying in abundance about this room. Not on the chair, not on the bed or floor, nor, as he found when he shuffled over to take a look, were they in the storage lockers around the walls. So logically, they had to be with the dressing gown. He was missing a pair of pyjamas and some underwear. Admittedly, not a huge wardrobe, but it was all he owned at the moment. A thought hit him, and he hurried to the en suite bathroom. No, no clothes in there either. There was, however, a towel.

Arthur cheered softly, the presence of a manageable sheet of material seeming like a major triumph at this point. He wondered why he had ever scoffed at Ford's insistence on the usefulness of a towel. He wrapped it around his midriff, and went to the door. It opened and he stepped through with relief.

Standing in the corridor, in his towel, he wondered where he should go first. Zaphod's room would be the obvious choice, to eliminate that possibility. He did not relish the thought of going back there in what was, after all, still the middle of the night. However, it seemed better than roaming the ship clad only in a guest-size bath sheet, and it would give him a few more minutes to collect his thoughts and work out a plan.

The sleeping quarters all being huddled together at one end of the ship, it was a very short walk to the door of Zaphod's room. Arthur stood just outside the door's sensor field, indecision suddenly paralysing him. It was night. He'd stormed out of this room not all that long ago, and it would be rather embarrassing to have to explain his return, should Zaphod wake, not to mention how rude it would be just to walk into someone's bedroom.

No, much better to search the rest of the ship first, establish whether his clothes were anywhere else, then go back to Zaphod's in the morning, if they hadn't turned up. Arthur turned and walked back off up the corridor towards the galley.

* * *

A couple of feet of air and a few inches of steel away, Zaphod was not getting the peaceful sleep Arthur had imagined for him. Ford might not be 'the best bang since the big one' by a long shot, but he did know most of his semi-cousin's anatomy quite well, and at the moment, like Arthur, he was exploring the complexities of the new arm.

Having ordered the light on, he had found that if he pulled both right arms up together to above shoulder height, then held the skin on the lower one to seal it to the top one, he could pivot the two arms up and down and make really spectacular farting sounds. Zaphod rolled his eyes benevolently.

"You know, that's not quite what I got it for, and it isn't exactly what I'd call romantic."

"Who said anything about romance?" Said Ford, gazing intently at the join, but stopping all the same. It's a good job."

"Did it myself. Grew it..less messy than just getting one attached." He reached his left hand up inside Ford's pyjamas and stroked his back. Ford let go of his arms.

"You're not going to get the upper hand here." He said, "Even with an extra one." He sat up astride Zaphod and pulled off his top. "You know Arthur wouldn't approve at all. They're very sniffy about family on Earth."

"Can we keep him out of this? I know it's hard for you, but I find it vaguely distasteful, and since you're in my room, I make the rules." Ford ignored him and lowered his head to Zaphod's necks.

"No you don't" Zaphod said, warningly, "Not that quickly. Just because I gave you ideas." Ford shrugged,

"Okay. Suit yourself." He wriggled down Zaphod's body and started to worry at one startlingly pink nipple with his tongue. Zaphod smiled and ran the extra hand down Ford's back and into his trousers. Ford took a sharp breath as Zaphod started to display his undeniable excellence, but he was better equipped than Arthur to deal with it, and slid across to wake up the other nipple that had, up to now, been resting in his ear.

The problem was that Zaphod was really very good, and if you wanted to keep any vestige of control, you had to take that control early on. Ford knew this, and so, as he felt himself slipping into a daze of pleasure, he shook himself hard and sat up again, squashing Zaphod's hand between them. Zaphod was looking a little flushed, clearly his earlier exertions had only keyed him up for this. Ford was about to seize his initiative, when Zaphod's other hands shot out and grabbed him by the arms. The firm grip was enough to lift Ford so that the third hand could make its escape, and it pulled his legs out from under him, lying him flat on his back before he knew what was happening.

"Just so you know, baby, I feel like being in control tonight." Zaphod muttered to him, his extra hand reaching easily to remove Ford's trousers. Given his position, Ford didn't think it would be prudent to complain. Instead, he grabbed Zaphod's arms in return and hauled him down flat on top of him, receiving a dig in the stomach for his pains, which he was in no position not to return. Summoning up all his strength, he rolled over, taking Zaphod with him, but Zaphod's hands were on the move again. Pinning Ford's arm to his side, while one hand started to caress the body part that had just assaulted him, the other curled its fingers into his hair, pulling his face gently up to within an inch of his own.

"I wouldn't play like that if I were you. I've had mine once tonight, I can wait. I'll tease..." Ford screwed up his face,

"Not fair. I came here in good faith."

"You're sounding like the Earthman." Zaphod said, a little more moodily. He pecked him on the lips and let him back down onto the bed. Ford delved his hand down between them and stroked lazily at the warm lump still pressing into his stomach,

"Did you ever consider growing an extra one of those?" He asked innocently.

"Hell no! I have enough trouble satisfying the one I've got. Talking of which, a little more effort on your part wouldn't go amiss."

* * *

Arthur wandered into the galley, hoiking his towel further up around his waist. The galley was empty. Nobody and nothing. Certainly none of his clothes. He sighed and walked on, to the bridge. Here lights flashed and random bleeps and fizzes gave him to understand that the computers were busily doing something, but still, there were no heaps of discarded clothing lying around. Arthur sat in one of the console chairs to think. Where else on the ship could they be. Really, these were the only places he went. He wasn't too sure about the layout of the rest. Zaphod's favourite relaxing area in the view-bubble off the bridge was unofficially off-limits, but he could check.

He shuffled down the linkway and looked around. Outside, the stars were fabulously beautiful. There was something undeniably 'wow' about being there, in the middle of them all, watching them slide imperceptibly past each other as the ship moved onwards. Arthur shook his head and looked down. In Zaphod's chair, Arthur's underpants lay crumpled in the corner. Almost as if someone had been sitting in the chair and had stuffed them down the side to get rid of them. He frowned, plough-team back in full action, picked them up and held them to the light.

It didn't look as if they had experienced any worrying adventures since leaving his body, so he put them on, keeping his towel carefully wrapped, then, having checked for any other clothes, he went back to the bridge.

What, precisely, had his underpants been doing on their own in that chair? He decided that this was another question for his list, and looked around for an alternative pen. There was one on the console, a curious interloper among all the fully automated systems and dicto-machines. There was, however, no paper. He sat down again. He would have to write on his body. He doubted very much that any further searching tonight would disclose his other clothes, and in the meantime, he wouldn't get any sleep without writing this down.

Arthur hesitated, the pen hovering over the back of his hand. He just couldn't bring himself to do it. As a boy he had been given a strong talking to by his mother: 'You do not write on the back of your hand. The ink is probably very bad for you, and it looks ugly and common to have writing scrawled all over your hands.' Conditioning is everything. Arthur lost his nerve, and started to write on his wrist. He could always cover that with his sleeve if ever he got a sleeve back, and at least he was still following his mother's advice. That piece of advice, at least, had really sunk in.

Having written his questions in as small a script as he could manage, Arthur went back to bed and fell to sleep.

* * *

Ford's too-blue eyes narrowed as he smiled wickedly and started to apply a little more pressure. Zaphod's own hands were brushing trails of pleasure across Ford's chest, down his sides, into his hair, and down into his groin where two of them took up a vigorous assault, while the third did its best to support his weight. Ford tried to ignore the throbbing in his crotch that begged for his full attention, and succeeded to a great enough extent that he could carry on with his own hand-work. There was a head breathing heavily in his left ear, then another in his right, both licking and sucking at his ears and neck. Ford threw back his head and ground the top of it into the pillow, his curls fanning out around him like a halo, his mouth open and desperate. Zaphod was losing his balance over him, his full weight was on him, and the hands and their charges were trapped between them.

And Ford found time, in the second before he lost the power of rational thought, to bring his head back up, tilt it down and plant a firm and not unloving kiss in the valley of bared skin directly in front of him.

Two sets of teeth dug, part playfully, part abandoned, into his shoulders as Zaphod stifled what sounded like the cry of a Vrill in them.

* * *

Arthur woke up and looked at his clock. It was eight o'clock, ship-time. Not an unreasonable hour to go and search somebody's cabin for your clothes, he thought. In the light of day (a little brighter in the corridors, anyway), returning to Zaphod's room didn't seem quite so embarrassing, and before he knew it, he was outside the door, talking himself into being brave and going in.

Ford woke suddenly. He wondered what had roused him, then he became aware of his situation and screwed up his face.

"Oh Zark." He whispered to himself with resignation. Around him, Zaphod stirred,

"Mmm?" He muttered through lips that wouldn't open. Ford ignored him, he was listening to something outside the room, a flustered muttering, like someone trying to convince themselves to do something by talking themselves through it. Ford could only think of one species that would do that.

"Oh, Belgium!" He said, and shot up out of Zaphod's arms. "Lock, door, lock." He hissed, but the door did not confirm his order.

"Won' do it anymore...I upset it..." Zaphod slurred from the pillow.

"It's Arthur." Ford whispered savagely at him,

"Yeah?" Asked Zaphod, smiling, and clearly having no understanding of what the words meant. Then they sank in a little.

"Zark." He said quietly, "Um..." He looked around and then grabbed Ford's shoulder, hauled him back down onto the bed and pushed him bodily under the covers, where his extra bulk was well disguised by Zaphod's third arm holding a tent over him.

With a 'Good Morning', the door opened and Arthur came in.

"Um...Sorry I didn't knock – the doors don't seem to like it." He said, "Have you seen my dressing gown?"

* * *

_How long is Ford going to be trapped under the covers? Will Arthur get any answers to his questions? Where are Arthur's clothes? Where is Wowbagger in all this? Dashed if I know, but it's amazing what a review or two can do!_


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Well, this chappie leapt into my head when I'd already worked out that I didn't have time to write one up, what with needing sleep after last night's storm, but it was very insistent. Took me a couple of hours to work through how it fitted, but I know now. Thanks for the reviews, happy muse here ;)_**  
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**Chapter 6 - Something of an enigma**

Ford slammed Arthur up against the wall. Their noses were nearly touching. Arthur could see nothing but eyes, eyes so staggeringly blue that he felt like diving in. He should be feeling panicked, he knew he should. There was no reason why he shouldn't be shoving Ford out of the way and running screaming down the corridor. Except that he didn't want to.

After his primary exertion, Ford seemed to have temporarily run out of steam. Arthur kept staring into his eyes until his own eyes started to water. Did Ford _never _need to blink? Further down Ford's face there seemed to be a fight going on between his muscles and his skin, the skin was winning at the moment, but the effect was like gerbils fighting in a small rubber bag. His lips were pressed firmly together, but it seemed like some parts of him wanted very much to open his mouth, while other bits would have made do with smiling, while still other bits would have been content with nothing but a full blown scream. Arthur could feel the heavy, irregular breaths coming from Ford's nostrils, they were warm and tickled a little. Without thinking, he let his jaw drop slightly, and felt the breaths cascade over the inside of his lower lip.

It was at this point that Arthur realised that he could, in fact, say something. He wondered what it ought to be. The things he would have had on his list of useful phrases for exactly this sort of situation would have included things like: 'Ford, what the hell do you think you're doing?', 'Ford, I don't know about your home planet, but you'll remember that in England, we like a little personal space', 'Ford, have you taken leave of your senses? Get off me!' and 'Arrgh!...I'm not that kind of man...' (this last bit shouted from a couple of hundred feet down the nearest corridor). They would not have included: 'My God, your eyes are beautiful', 'Ford, I'm afraid I might have to kiss you', 'Mmm...', or even, 'Ahhh...'. Unfortunately, the second list was all his brain could come up with at the moment, and Arthur found that rather disconcerting. He settled, after a couple of preparatory gulps, for a rather mmm-ful,

"Ford, what are you doing?" The hands on his shoulders clenched, then loosened and slid slowly down his arms, Arthur felt his knees going weak, and his eyebrows shot up in surprise: Now that _definitely_ wasn't meant to happen. Ford was still staring straight into his eyes, Arthur was pretty sure he still hadn't blinked. "Um..." Arthur tried again, not particularly wanting an answer, unless it was the sort that brought Ford in a little closer maybe... 'Um...' thought Arthur's brain in confusion. Luckily, at that moment, Ford blinked.

"Oh, zark it." He said, and leant his face in closer to Arthur's. He met his open lips with the tenderest touch of his own, then shrugged slightly, and yanked Arthur towards him, crushing their lips together, dancing his tongue uncertainly around the join. Arthur did the only thing he could think of to do: he fainted.

He came to a few minutes later, his head between his knees, on the floor. Ford was sitting opposite him, looking fixedly at him,

"Okay?" He asked as Arthur looked up. He sounded like a man who has been left with a small child and has no idea what to do with it or say to it. Arthur nodded. His head was a bit airy, but other than that, he felt alright. Now what had they been doing just before he... Oh, yes. Arthur struggled to his knees and crawled towards Ford. Ford looked at him warily, as if sure that Arthur was about to turn on him.

"I'm sorry." Said Arthur. "I wasn't expecting...Would it put you out of your way to...to do that again?" Ford stared at him, if possible, even more intently than before.

"Really?" He asked, and his whole frame seemed to relax,

"Mmm." Said Arthur, somehow managing to make it sound like he was asking for more tea at the Vicar's. Ford reached out, still with some caution, and pulled himself towards Arthur. Arthur sank back against the wall, his feet sliding out across the floor. Hot breath flowed over his chin, then was sealed into his mouth as Ford closed his eyes and concentrated on what his own mouth was doing. A gentle whimper from Arthur, and a sort of 'crump' as he settled more onto the floor were all that could be heard for a long moment.

The floor was cold, and Arthur could feel his back starting to complain, but the rest of him was strangely comfortable. Ford was warm on top of him, not bothering to keep his weight off him, so that Arthur could hardly breathe, but the pressure was electrifying. He reached his hands up tentatively and placed them on Ford's shoulder blades. At the touch, Ford pulled away. Arthur's eyebrows shot into a sorrowful chevron, but Ford was staring at him again.

"That's odd." Said Ford, stroking Arthur's cheek absent-mindedly, "I didn't think...I thought you'd be difficult. Actually, I thought you'd hit me and run." Arthur heaved his chest muscles into enough action to take a decent breath,

"So did I, actually. But...well..." He turned his face away with a modest smile. When he looked back Ford was still watching him expectantly. He faltered, the smile fading, "Well, I mean, I...I quite enjoyed it really..." He trailed off. Ford pushed himself off him and hauled him to his feet. He gently pushed Arthur back against the wall. Ford's lips were warm and persuasive, pushing Arthur's out of the way, nuzzling into him. His hands were under Arthur's pyjamas, running up his back, making him shiver. And Arthur clung to him, feeling that perhaps now, just for a while, he had a home.

* * *

"Earthman, hi, come in..." Zaphod said, commendably smoothly for a man holding another man under his bed-covers. Arthur stepped through the door and stood awkwardly just inside, playing with the hem of his towel. Zaphod looked at him expectantly, an expression of cheeriness very nearly managing to hide the fact that he hadn't had anything like a full night's sleep.

"What was it you asked?" Zaphod said eventually, when Arthur failed to speak.

"Oh...have you seen my dressing gown? Only I can't seem to find it." Zaphod turned his head left to right around the room, his eyes not focusing on anything at all.

"No." He said.

_What just happened there? Where did the interloper chapter spring from when contented author was all cued up to start from the line and get this one out in a few days time? Why have we failed to answer any of the questions from the last chapter? Will they ever be answered? Will my feet ever warm up? Please be lovely and review to find the answers to these questions (except the last one, I could probably manage that one without reviews, based solely on personal experience and the efficacy of my hot-water bottle.) _

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	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Thanks for reviewing, I'm glad you're confused - it means I'm not alone ; ) Hopefully this one will start to sort things out a bit. My feet have indeed warmed up (hurrah!), and I thought I'd do my best to get this one out before Christmas takes over entirely. A very happy Christmas and New Year to all who sail in her...and now a word from our President..._**  
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**Chapter 6 – How Arthur surprises himself, and somebody else**

"Oh." Said Arthur, looking round the room in confusion. Given Zaphod's answer, he had no strategy planned for backing out gracefully.

There was a muffled cough from under the covers. Zaphod's left-hand head did a little swivel, taking in the barely visible lump in the sheets, and quickly focused on the right head.

"Excuse me." Said the right. Arthur was fairly sure that it hadn't been the head that coughed, but really, he couldn't _ask_, so he scratched his head in a trying-desperately-to-be-nonchalant way, turned around saying,

"I'll just, um, go and look for it...', caught his knees up in the inner folds of the towel, and swooped gracefully from the room, collapsing in a heap against the far wall as the door swished happily closed.

'Feels familiar...' he thought to himself as he struggled to get up. But for the life of him, he couldn't put his finger on why it felt so familiar.

* * *

Ford was walking backwards down the corridor, pulling Arthur along with him. Although most of Arthur was agreeable to the uninterrupted and quite flatteringly passionate kiss he was receiving during this manoeuvre, some bits of him (notably the ones responsible for balance and keeping-Arthur-off-the-floor), were not so keen, and would rather have waited until they were somewhere where they could sit down, or at least stand still. As a result, the strangely shaped humanoid conglomerate heading rapidly for the bridge had two heads, sealed at the lips and kept in place by a pair of hands, four legs moving rather erratically, and another set of arms flailing wildly out behind.

They stumbled between the flight consoles, falling into one of the chairs. Arthur was pulled down hard on top of Ford, who yelped and fumbled between them. He broke the kiss to mutter irritatedly,

"Your zarking pen, Arthur."

His hand wormed its way into Arthur's dressing gown pocket and removed the offending item, slamming it down on the console next to them, before slipping around the back of Arthur's neck and pulling him back into the kiss.

Bits of Arthur's mind were whirling. He just couldn't understand it. He felt so...so comfortable. Like he'd always meant to do this, and just hadn't got around to it before. Ford's hands smoothing down the unruly hair at the back of his neck and pulling his pyjama bottoms up too far, as he struggled to keep Arthur on top of him, were just right somehow. They were just warm enough, just soft enough and just hard enough. Ford's scent was calming; it was as if he had turned on a blast of pheromones just for Arthur, but the actual smell that wafted up Arthur's nose as he breathed, millimetres from Ford's face, was like being at home. It was the smell that hits you when you come though your own front door after a period of absence. The smell you never notice when you go home every day, only when you've been away; but you recognise it: it is friendly and warm and it means a familiar bed and a hot shower and food that is cooked just the way you're used to – whether you like it or not. Arthur inhaled and felt himself slipping. The chair just wasn't big enough for this.

Ford shifted uncomfortably under him, and Arthur's feet scudded across the floor. Ford let go of his pyjamas, and he scrabbled to push himself up again, straining not to break the kiss. But it was impossible, and he stood up, panting. He swallowed, and looked at Ford, sprawled in the chair.

"Um...not that I mind...but why did you do this now?" Ford grinned at him wickedly, the smile sent a shiver right through Arthur, making his hair stand slightly on end. He marvelled at the intensity of the sensation.

"Because I couldn't wait any longer? And I was a bit worried that Zaphod might get to you first if I didn't do something soon."

"Zaphod?" Arthur felt utterly bemused. This really didn't seem to fit with any information currently stored in his brain. "What would he do?" Ford shrugged,

"You can never tell. Zaphod does pretty much what he likes. If you'd known him as long as I have, you'd know that the only way to get what you want is to get in there and zarking well snatch it out from under his nose before he gets round to noticing it's there."

"You mean he'd...?" Arthur looked vaguely horrified. Ford hauled himself out of the chair and put his hands on Arthur's shoulders,

"Perhaps. Doesn't matter though – I got to you first." Arthur kept his head well away from Ford's,

"Did you always want...?"

"Always," Ford interrupted firmly. "Come on." He took Arthur by the hand and led him into the view-bubble off to the side of the bridge. "Zaph's chair's plenty wide enough for two."

Arthur gaped at the stars as they entered the little glass-walled room. It was strange, but no amount of staring at stars though view-ports or on screens really told your body that you were really _out there_. Even the just-under-thirty-seconds he had spent really and actually _out there_ hadn't quite done the trick. For some reason he had been rather preoccupied with other things, like survival, wanting to hit Ford, and nursing his aching head, and had utterly failed to notice the scenery. He noticed it now. It was hard not to, when the only thing between you and it was a thin, curved sheet of what looked like ordinary glass.

Arthur was so busy star-gazing, that Ford had pulled on the cord of his dressing gown, and eased it down his arms and onto the floor, before he registered that anything was happening. He looked down. The dressing gown lay inert on the grassy-green carpet. He looked back at Ford. His eyes were blazing at him again. It was like being sucked into the void all over again. As Ford's lips sealed over his once more, Arthur wondered if he would survive longer than just-under-thirty-seconds this time.

Hands were fiddling with his pyjama buttons, and Arthur felt that he probably ought to help out with something. The problem was, he really didn't know what. It was all very well to go along with whatever Ford had planned... Whatever Ford had planned... Arthur gulped. He wasn't sure he wanted to think about that, much as he was enjoying this... Yes, all very well to go along with it, but it wasn't anything he had done, or even thought about before. He didn't have any experience to back him up here.

The brain that had almost, but not quite, defeated a good few local council employees in its time, flickered into stilted action. It whirred and calculated. The general theme here seemed to be undressing. 'Undressing, Arthur. You can do that. You've done it a lot. It's just that the buttons are the wrong way round. For this, we can compensate.'

The message got through, and in a second, Ford's Blazer joined Arthur's dressing gown on the floor. Ford's hand was inside Arthur's pyjama top, stroking soft, ticklish trails up the soft flesh over his ribs. Arthur sighed, then wondered why. His arms hung limply at his sides again, as Ford brought his hands back up to Arthur's shoulders and slipped the sleeves down his arms, till the top joined the pile.

The kiss was gone again, and Arthur opened his eyes.

"Why aren't you complaining?" Asked Ford, guiding Arthur to help him pull off his jersey.

"Should I be?"

"I just thought you would. Its the sort of thing you usually complain about. Or at least, it's the sort of thing I wouldn't have dreamed of trying while we were stuck on Earth, and I needed to be sure of somewhere to sleep from time to time. And I think I was pretty impressive, given that there were a lot of times when strictly speaking I should have lacked the control to stop myself trying. I still think I was a pretty froody guy to avoid rocking the boat all that time. Mind you, looks like I needn't have bothered."

Arthur wasn't listening. He was intent on unbuttoning Ford's shirt. Underneath was skin: skin that Arthur had seen many times before. It was skin that had spent a lot of time on his sofa on hot summer nights, while Arthur bustled round the room, trying to clear up after one of Ford's illustrated explanations, which were always rather messy. Now, however, it looked different. It...glowed. Not actually, not in a way that would be measurable on a spectrometer or visible from across a darkened room, but in a friendly, come hither sort of way, that made Arthur want to bury his face in it. He resisted the urge, and set about trying to pull the shirt off.

Ford let go of Arthur's shoulders to quickly rescue himself from strangulation by his own tie, which Arthur, in his haste, had failed to spot. He was not, however, quick enough to stop Arthur pulling the shirt sleeves down, over his hands, before he could undo the cuff buttons. The cuffs jammed on his hands and Arthur looked down in surprise. Something was clogging up his brain, stopping him processing the information necessary to resolving the situation. As a result, he just stood there blankly. Ford looked at him inquiringly,

"I'm stuck, Arthur. Going to help, or are you just going to stand there watching me struggle?" Arthur shook himself and managed to send a couple of helpful and encouraging messages to his fingers. By twisting and pulling at the cuffs, he eventually managed to get them undone and pulled them off Ford's arms.

"That would have been a lot easier if you'd pulled them up again." Said Ford, as he pulled Arthur back towards him and slipped a hand down the front of his pyjama bottoms. Arthur breathed a sigh against Ford's cheek, Ford smiled and sank into the chair. This time there was room for them both.

Ford's hands were buttock-caressing fiends, finding every little point to make Arthur squeak with surprise. He rolled the pyjama bottoms down to Arthur's thighs to give himself more room to manoeuvre. Arthur hauled his face out of Ford's neck and managed to summon up the will to pull the offending items off his legs altogether. Ford flung the bottoms across the bubble and they sailed perfectly out of sight behind a large pot plant in the corner. As he was about to send the underpants to join them, Arthur raised a protest.

"No, for pity's sake, I might need them." He said, in a moment of frantic lucidity. Ford rolled his eyes and stuffed the underpants down beside them in the chair.

Returning to the fray, Arthur started to feel fantastic and worrying tingles running down to his feet, then returning at full speed to his head, where they exploded into kisses and gasps. Ford did not seem to be in a much better state, so that the writhing humanoid shape was now merging into a formless mishmash of bits of limbs and a lot of torso, with not a lot of head, since most of the heads were buried in the chair and the waving mass of arms. Somehow, the arms seemed to multiply as you watched, if you had watched, which no-one was meant to...

Except that someone was watching. Well, not exactly watching. He was not there for the spectacle. In fact, he found the spectacle almost unbearably boring. He was there on a mission, and he intended to carry it out... If only he could get a little attention.

"Arthur Dent!" He called, in a voice like a tax inspector.

There was no response, not even a slowing of the wriggling gasping writhing on the chair.

"Arthur Philip Dent!" He tried again. The middle name usually got people's attention; it suggested _Research_ and _Having a file on you_.

Nothing.

He went over and prodded the outermost limb.

Nothing.

He shook it vigorously.

The shapeless form moaned and the limb withdrew into the morass.

He could see lips playing over a cheek, soft murmurings into an ear, hands stroking and playing. He knew there had to be a working brain in there somewhere.

"Arthur Dent!" He tried one last time.

Still nothing.

"You're a jerk!" He screamed at the flailing limbs, and disappeared back through the door and up the ramp of his spaceship, which had materialised neatly through the _Heart of Gold_.

"Computer, I am very upset." Wowbagger said, as the door closed behind him. He didn't sound upset, he sounded bored and morose.

"Oh dear." Said the computer, not very consolingly.

"I don't think he heard me. I mean, what's the point if they don't even hear me? Doesn't feel like I've really done the job at all."

"Why didn't he hear you?"

"Too busy. Having too much fun. Damn contented bastard." He rubbed his chin,

"I suppose I could do something about that. I mean, given the inconvenience he's put me to...I'm going to have to go and look for him in a different time period after all... I even feel like I might almost have the energy to do it. If you can help me, Computer. Revenge will be not quite as tiresome as most things..."

"What do you want?" Asked the computer.

_What has Wowbagger got in mind? Is this the answer to all our questions, or is it just a wild goose chase? Will Ford and Arthur have time to finish what they were doing, or will they be thwarted by the master insulter? Christmas cake, and possibly answers to anyone who reviews : )_


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Okay chaps, hopefully this will wipe the confusion from your brows. I've only been let into the secret of most of it while I've been typing, so I've been just as confused as you over the festive season! (And I found the broom cupboard at last, Shadow Valkyrie!)  
_

**Chapter 7 – A chapter for when you've got quite a lot of explaining to do.**

Arthur heard, as if from a very, very long way away, the whirr and clunk of a spaceship ramp being hauled back snugly into place. Some time later, as it finally filtered through to his brain, the sound made him pause in his intimate investigation of Ford's earlobe. A cold feeling ran through him, stopping at all stations on the way. By the time it reached his feet, his hands had started to shake. Ford too had stopped: there is something impossible about trying to carry on a wildly passionate embrace in a chair, no matter how large, when the other party involved has stopped dead and is lying on top of you like a plank of wood.

"Arthur?" He asked, struggling for breath. Arthur did not answer. He was too busy trying to decipher his situation.

Here he was, in a chair, with Ford. He was...naked. Ford wasn't far off naked. He remembered getting here, he had been kissing Ford. How had that happened? He had...enjoyed it. Arthur's eyebrows were doing little dances of confusion across his forehead. The memory of getting here was fading somehow. It was as if it had been a dream, the sort of dream that starts to slip away as soon as you wake up. But it can't have been a dream, because here he was. Here he was.

He was lying on Ford, chest to chest, a film of sweat gliding juicily between them. His left arm was hooked around Ford's shoulder, gathering pins and needles in the tight grip between shoulder-blade and chair-back. His right arm was tight around Ford's back, fingers resting intercostally on Ford's right side. Ford's right arm was flung over Arthur's left shoulder and had, until a few seconds ago, been determinedly combing the right kind of sweat up from Arthur's neck and through to the tips of his hair. His left was still, Arthur was alarmed to discover, resting familiarly on Arthur's bottom.

Moving his self-inspection further south, Arthur found a little micro-climate of solid, moist heat where his left thigh rested on Ford's groin. It extended to the area where Ford's left leg was getting similarly neighbourly with Arthur's own groin.

His brain demanded that he yelp and jump back. Unfortunately, his body wasn't listening: it was in shock.

"Umwhah?" He said. He swallowed, and looked at Ford expectantly. Ford looked at him,

"Now that's the Arthur I was expecting." He said, heavily. Then he frowned,

"I think." He continued, taking his hand slowly away from Arthur's nether regions.

"Mind you," he went on, a slight grin starting to return, "while you're here, it might be nice to..." The message finally got through, and Arthur yelped and jumped back. The instant he was on his feet, he looked Ford straight in the eye, a dangerous glint in his own. His face was turned slightly to the right, his chin a little raised, so that he he was looking down his left cheek at Ford, with much the same expression that he might once have used to face down a truculent Tetra-pak, or to eye with suspicion a dish of foreign food that seemed still to be alive. This look continued for half a minute or so, at which point it slowly changed, imperceptibly morphing until it was transformed into Arthur's familiar look of utter bewilderment.

"Ford?" He asked, with no idea where to start in the list of questions building up in his brain. Then he shook his head. The questions were fading. Ford looked at him and shrugged. For a moment he wondered why Arthur was standing in front of him with no clothes on, but given what he knew about Englishmen and their views on talking about underwear, he decided that it was probably better not to say anything, so he lazily did up his trousers, lounged back in the chair and watched Arthur shake his head once more and head for the bridge.

* * *

Trillian was walking down the corridor with a cup of something indescribable from the Nutri-Matic. She had been testing the machine's range of 'psycho-form' drinks: beverages that claimed to harmlessly and temporarily alter your personality traits to your own specification, while providing all the nutritional value and taste that you would expect from a Sirius Cybernetics Corporation foodstuff. At least it was true to its word, she thought, as she sipped it and forced herself to swallow. She was supposed to be on her way to Zaphod's room, and while he really was incredibly good in bed, not to mention horrifically charming and sweet when he turned it on; nonetheless, some aspects of his personality were starting to grate just a little, and it had occurred to her that it might not be a bad idea to see how well this particular function worked, and get a little dose of don't-care straight from the galley. The prospect of drinking the whole cup, however, was not terribly inviting, and when she saw Arthur coming towards her, his face becoming, as always, mildly and inoffensively hopeful as they neared, she decided that this time she could probably cope with Zaphod unarmed, as it were.

"Want a drink?" She asked as he approached, "I got this, but I'm not really thirsty now."

"What is it?" Arthur asked, holding out his hand and taking the cup, sniffing it tentatively, and slopping some over the cuff of his dressing gown as he moved it hastily away from his nose once more.

"Oh, just...something hot..." Trillian answered vaguely, looking shiftily down the corridor. She didn't particularly want to have to explain to Arthur her choice of drink, but nor did she really want to lie to him. He took a trial mouthful and gagged. She turned back and smiled, "seems a pity to waste it." She said brightly, and started to leave. Around the corner they suddenly heard the whirring, thumping tread of Marvin.

"Oh no, the Paranoid Android." Said Trillian, raising her eyebrows, "I was going to Zaphod's for a nightcap, but I think I'll head to my room for a bit first. If there's one thing I cannot face right now, it's half an hour of aching diodes and the futility of existence. 'Night Arthur." She blew him a careless kiss and scurried back down the corridor to her room. The door closed and Arthur was left alone with the cup of 'hot'. 'Seems a pity to waste it.' He thought to himself, and taking a deep breath, he gulped it down. By the time his face had finished contorting itself into bizarre and unseemly expressions of disgust, the clunking footsteps of Marvin had died away, totally failing to come round the corner into the corridor of sleeping compartments as Trillian had feared. Arthur was still heading aimlessly towards Zaphod's end of the passage, trying to walk himself to sleep, when he literally bumped into Ford. Not looking where he was going, Ford caught him a blow on the shoulder that knocked him off balance. He dropped the polystyrene cup and grabbed at Ford's shoulder for support. Ford clutched at his waist as he threatened to pull him over, and by the time they were both stable again, their faces were very close, too close. Arthur started to pull away: that was what you did in these situations. A little embarrassed half-laugh, a manly grunt maybe, and they would pass each other by. Except that this time, Arthur found he didn't care. He _really _didn't care. Ford was warm and friendly-looking, and deep in his heart, though he'd never admit it, Arthur was very, very...very fond of him. Would it, cosmically-speaking, matter if he _didn't _pull back at this point?

Ford slammed Arthur up against the wall...

* * *

As Arthur made his way across the bridge, he scratched his head. Something odd was happening here, he thought to himself. There were some peculiar gaps appearing in his memory of the evening. What had he been doing earlier? He sat in one of the console chairs and played absently with a pen that was, for some reason, lying on the console in front of him.

The last thing he could really remember was walking down the sleeping quarters corridor; he had bumped into Trillian, yes, that was it. She had given him her drink. Then what? Then...something about Zaphod. What was it now? Someone was going to see him.

Arthur searched his brain, but could find no further information.

"Must have been me." He muttered out loud, got up, not noticing the sticky rip of damp, bare skin off fake leather, and walked briskly through the ship to Zaphod's door.

"It is my pleasure to open for you..." Said the door.

"And my satisfaction to close again, in the knowledge of a job well done." It finished smugly, a few seconds later. Then it listened attentively to someone, but nobody noticed, because doors can be inscrutable when they choose.

* * *

"That'll teach him." Said the immortal being sitting morosely on the bridge of a very clever ship not far from the _Heart of Gold_.

"Yes, yes, very clever." Said the computer. " I don't know what you were _planning_ to do, but it seems to have worked out in your favour."

"For once." Wowbagger muttered tersely. He was indeed lucky. Well removed from the niceties of social interaction Wowbagger might be, but he knew a potentially embarrassing situation when he saw one, and with the whole of time at his disposal, it hadn't taken him long to figure out that this was the crème de la crème. 'If you're going to do revenge,' he thought, 'and you're not even going to see the outcome, you might as well make it good.' After all, the best he had originally hoped for was to lock Arthur in his own room, or perhaps a broom cupboard (the one just next to the galley was just right – full of pristine cleaning-cloths, mops in mint condition, and pallets of lemon-soaked paper napkins still in their factory wrappings), with no memory of how he got there. To have this opportunity for so much more suddenly thrust upon him would have sent any normal mortal into transports of malicious joy. For Wowbagger it was an almost imperceptible blip on the flat-line of his interest.

"How long are you going to keep the memory suppressant field working on them?" The computer asked conversationally.

"Oh, just an hour or two. Good invention of yours, that. I think I might use it; try to block out the memory of some of those Sunday afternoons. I just want to be sure that they're all thoroughly confused when I lift it."

"I'm surprised you didn't want them to remember what they were doing when you interrupted. I would have though you would have wanted them to remember the humiliation of being interrupted, the total misery of being separated before they could finish..."

"I don't want them to remember me coming, do I? I can't have Arthur Dent walking around telling people that I made such a hash of his insult the first time round that I had to try again. How's that going to look at parties? No. They'll remember nothing from just before they started...oh it's too dull even to think about... How long till we can catch up with him sometime else?" The computer hummed and clicked for a few seconds before answering:

"Best shot is a planet called Earth, out in the middle of nowhere and...way back in its prehistoric era for some reason. Estimated journey time: three weeks, one day." Wowbagger sighed and sat back in his chair,

"Come on then, they've probably had enough, and I think I'm past caring now." He pressed a button that lifted the field, and closed his eyes as the computer started the ship on the next leg of its eternal journey.

In the wrong cabin on the _Heart of Gold_, in a somewhat confused state, Arthur Dent had just drifted off to sleep.

* * *

_Well, that's answered a lot of our questions, but (if you can remember back that far), it still leaves Arthur, Zaphod and Ford, coping with The Morning After. Will _they_ ever find out what happened to their missing night? Will they forgive the door for it's role in things? What will happen the next time Ford bumps into Arthur in a corridor? Just how strong was that memory suppressant anyway? Will the broom cupboard make a more mainstream appearance? I can't help feeling Ford and Arthur were rather cut off in their prime... review to tell me if you agree and I'll see if the situation can't be rectified..._ ; ) 


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Thanks for the lovely reviews; if you have a timeline, I could probably do with a look at it - even I'm getting confused. Anyhow - to save us all from going completely mad, this chappy stays all at one time, in one location, so we should get through it okay _:-D**  
**

**Chapter 8 – Taking place almost entirely within the confines of a broom cupboard, for your pleasure**

Arthur lay on the floor in the corridor, trying to untangle his knees. The familiarity of his position was very strong, but it was also...different, like he was missing something. The door of Zaphod's cabin swooshed open again with a moan of pleasure, and Arthur found Ford standing over him, his own towel wrapped around his waist.

"Need a hand, Arthur?" Ford asked. Arthur looked up warily. He didn't really feel he was wearing enough to allow Ford to help him, so he shook his head and, after a short tussle which he nearly lost, managed to get his legs unhooked from the towel, and re-wrap it around his middle without revealing anything important.

As he struggled to his feet, Arthur's brain slowly finished processing its most recent data input, and a feeling of unaccountable jealously started to spread through him. His mouth started speaking without asking his permission first – working on an instinct born of he-knew-not-what.

"What were you doing in there?" His mouth asked. "Were you in bed with Zaphod? I thought you two were related? I sincerely hope there was no...no _activity_ in there. I mean, really Ford, I've always thought of you as a fairly sensible and...everyday sort of man, and I know you do have some very peculiar habits, but that's no reason to...I mean what would the universe be like if everyone went around just...and it's not as if there was no other problem. I mean I was...I was...Oh good grief..." He trailed off, trying to find some way of putting this that wouldn't make it sound like he had _wanted_ to be in bed with Zaphod. This brought to the fore a query he still particularly wanted answered.

"Ford...do you know how I ended up in bed with Zaphod?" Ford looked at Arthur, then at his own fingernails.

"No." He paused, pulling Arthur along the corridor with him, "Arthur, do you mind if we don't discuss what I was doing in bed with Zaphod. And we won't worry about what _you_ were doing in bed with Zaphod. And we won't worry about what I knew you'd say about me being in bed with Zaphod. Then maybe we could discuss how much I'd rather that you had been in bed with me, and..." He stopped. Arthur's mouth was hanging open and he looked like he might be on the point of collapse. "Arthur?" He asked carefully. Arthur shut his mouth and swallowed. He took a pace back from Ford and tried to find some way to wet his mouth so that he could use it for speaking again. However, his efforts were needless, as at that moment, Ford heard a set of light, tripping footsteps coming towards them.

"Zark – Trillian." Ford muttered, and shoved Arthur through the nearest door. Arthur's eyebrows were hiding in his hairline as he fell backwards onto soft wads of something that gave off a faint lemony odour as he sank into them. He tried to push himself up, but was thwarted by Ford entering the small space himself and locking the door behind him. It was now very dark.

"Ford, what exactly..." Arthur started, but Ford blew a whispered 'shhh' at him, and a hand fumbled around in the darkness, poking Arthur's eyeball with its thumb before moving down to stifle his pained yelp with its palm.

Arthur lay quietly, breathing in the musky scent of Ford's hand, listening to footsteps passing outside the cupboard door. He sensed Ford getting closer, felt the light tickle of hair on his cheek, and heard a faint whisper in his ear,

"Do you really want to explain to Trillian what you're doing in a broom cupboard with me?" Ford asked. As the footsteps died away, Ford's hand moved slowly back from Arthur's mouth. Arthur was very relieved: the temptation to kiss it had been almost overwhelming, and he didn't want to think about that. He hissed in Ford's general direction,

"We wouldn't have _been_ in the broom cupboard if you hadn't just pushed me in here. We could have been in the corridor, having a sensible discussion." Ford's hair was back on his cheek, an everso-slightly menacing tone in his voice,

"But I don't _want_ a sensible discussion, Arthur." He breathed. Arthur froze.

"Ford, that's my nipple." He whispered, in as matter-of-fact a way as he could. Ford's thumb continued to rasp backwards and forwards. Arthur gulped. He would have like to have been able to see Ford's face. Not because it was extremely pleasant to look at...alright, it was...no, concentrate Arthur...Where were we? Oh, yes, not because...

Arthur yipped and the hand shot back over his mouth. To be honest, that particular nipple was still rather sensitive from its earlier treatment. So, as we were saying: because it would be nice to get a little warning of what Ford was about to do, and to try to read his motives. As the hand moved away again, sliding a trailing thumb down his jaw, Arthur swallowed and tried again.

"Why, Ford?" There was a movement, like somebody getting comfy next to him, and Ford's forearm came to rest firmly across his collarbones. He could feel Ford's breath on his chin. A low murmur wandered across his cheek and meandered into his ear,

"You slept with Zaphod."

"I didn't want..." Arthur protested, but the hand was back,

"And I didn't think that was fair. After all, I brought you here, I'm the one who wanted..." There was a pause, as if Ford had realised he'd said too much. "Anyway..." He continued, "I thought that since you obviously weren't against the idea, it was up to me to do something about this. And I just...didn't want you mooning over that zarking Earthwoman...albeit she's amazingly... I just wanted to get in a little bit of time with you and explain."

"Explain what?" Arthur asked, in a fairly muffled voice through Ford's hand. Ford thought for a second.

"That you can't trust Zaphod to even look at you again. He's not...He's not Human."

"Neither are you." Whined the hand.

"No. But I'm...more susceptible to local custom and culture I suppose. Anyway, fifteen years on Earth has given me a slightly different outlook. I just don't want you to feel that Zaphod's the only option and then get all disappointed..."

"Disappointed!?" Arthur shrieked, ripping Ford's hand away from his mouth, "I didn't ask to sleep with that man! I didn't want to! I would never have chosen to! I certainly don't want to again, and if you think that I'm going to continue to ruin what is left of my self-esteem by giving in to you in a broom cupboard, you are very much mistaken!"

Flinging Ford away from him, Arthur's plan was to stand up, pull himself up to his full, and considerable height, open the door, make sure Ford saw the contempt on his face, and storm off, preferably to find his clothes and have a shower.

Unfortunately, this admirable plan was foiled by the exigencies of the situation. Being unable to get up without finding something to give himself leverage, the soft bale under him being to low and too soft to help, Arthur reached out in the darkness for a handhold. His hand brushed past Ford's shoulder and caught hold of a stout wooden pole. He applied his weight...and listened to the clatter and scuff of falling mops and the 'ouches' of Ford as he was battered repeatedly over the head by pristine smooth-grip wood handles. Arthur fell back with his trophy onto the bale.

There was silence.

More silence.

"Sorry." Muttered Arthur.

"Hm." Said Ford shortly.

Arthur felt a little embarrassed. The moment seemed to have passed for a dramatic exit. He didn't really feel like it any more anyway. Ford's leg was warm against his own, but it wasn't something he felt he could really complain about to a man who had just been assaulted by an avalanche of cleaning equipment and who had not yet berated Arthur for it.

His next plan was to carefully sit up and gently push himself to standing, without seeking further assistance, then open the door, check Ford wasn't actually seriously injured, and walk off calmly down the corridor for his clothes and a shower; possibly, though he wasn't entirely sure why, looking a little sheepish as he did so.

This slightly less admirable plan was foiled by the simple fact that Ford was cowering, his hands over his head, in front of Arthur, one knee on the bale of scented napkins. When Arthur sat up, it was to find his forehead banging against something that said 'Ow!'. Arthur agreed with it, and put out his hand to feel. It was Ford's head.

"Sorry." Arthur said again. He paused. He felt...like he was staring into deep, deep blue eyes. A strong feeling of deja vu came over him, closely linked to the idea of Ford's eyes and being very near to them. He shook himself and started to feel a little confused as his eyes began to water in the darkness.

Something brushed Arthur's nose: it was Ford's. His hands were on the back of Arthur's neck, and there was a moment when they almost gripped, and Arthur almost yelled and ran; but the moment passed, and instead, Arthur sat quite still, in deep surprise at his own continued presence, while Ford whispered,

"Please, Arthur."

Arthur was fighting with the strangest feeling: All this seemed frighteningly familiar, and his brain was desperately trying to work out why, but this was leaving very little capacity for dealing with his reaction to the current situation. He knew he should be up and running by now, but the bit of his brain doing all the work was telling him strange things. It was telling him: 'This was fun. We enjoyed this. This is a good survival opportunity.' For Arthur, this seemed a very odd thing for his brain to tell him. The dilemma was such, that when Ford's warmish, dryish lips brushed over his own, he did not respond for a measurable length of time.

Arthur's only real mistake, as he told himself later...although he wasn't sure at that point that he could honestly call it a mistake any more...was to open his mouth to speak. It was just that at that moment Ford, encouraged by Arthur's lack of complaint, made another attack on his lips, and in the darkness completely misjudged the distance. His lips met Arthur's with a force enough to send him back on to the bale of foil-wrapped napkins, but not enough to hurt; enough to make any attempt to pretend that he didn't know what the inside of Arthur's mouth tasted like utterly futile, but not enough to give Arthur a real excuse to complain that Ford had forced him.

Their lips were still firmly together as Arthur reached up a hand to Ford's shoulder. His intention was to push him away, but somehow, as his hand closed on the warm skin, he just couldn't bring himself to do it. The taste of Ford was...familiar. He knew this taste: not in the way he had known Zaphod's taste – all confectionery and hot drinks, but in the way he would remember the flavour of a sauce he had tried once before and couldn't quite remember when. He allowed himself to taste a little more, and his tongue sank comfortably into Ford's mouth as his hand moved further over Ford's shoulder and pulled him closer.

Ford lost his balance and clutched wildly at the air, unable to see to steady himself. A pile of cleaning cloths descended on them, lying like thin blankets over Ford's back. His hand slammed down to the floor and Arthur grabbed him round the middle, pulling him back onto the pallet. Ford's towel slipped and gave up trying to cling to him. As it slid to the ground, Ford hauled himself further on top of Arthur, pulling gently out of the kiss.

"That's more what I was after, yes. You don't mind then?" Arthur stopped, slowly let go of Ford and tried to push himself up on his elbows,

"What am I doing?" He asked the cupboard in general. The assorted cleaning fluids in their smooth plastic bottles utterly failed to answer. Ford sighed: this was not going according to plan.

"Why am I letting you do this?" Arthur probed further. The packs of one-hundred ready-soaped scouring pads on the top shelf remained stubbornly silent. Ford waited. If he was right about the way Arthur was working this through, he might get away without having to listen to one of Arthur's standard panicky bletherings. He was wrong.

"What did I say earlier?" Arthur continued. The Squeegees hanging on their individual hooks gathered themselves to speak, but Arthur cut them off,

"I said that I would not give in to you in a broom cupboard. Actually, I will extend that statement: I will not give in to you anywhere; not in a broom cupboard, not in the galley, on the bridge, in your room. In fact, nowhere on this ship or off it. I realise that you obviously don't consider the mere act of having sex with someone to be terrifically important or noteworthy. Clearly it is of no interest to you whether the person you are next to is a man, a woman, a six-breasted alien woman in need of some kissing lessons, a friend, a relative even. But even you must must have some scruples about trying it on with someone who really doesn't want to...don't you?" Ford drew a breath to speak, but Arthur hadn't finished,

"Okay, I know that I've gone along with a lot of your little schemes and ideas, and if we leave aside the fact that my planet was blown up, we haven't done too badly. I am of course discounting the fact that I have nearly died on several occasions and that I have seen a lot of things I never wished to see, but I will admit that I am still alive. Nonetheless, it is not my intention to follow you on this one. I cannot deny that I was in bed with Zaphod, but I maintain that I did not want to be there, and although strictly speaking I let him do it, that was more to do with him having drugged me with my own brain-chemicals before I could stop him. I therefore claim diminished responsibility. It does not mean that I am interested in him, in you, or in any other life-form that isn't a human woman. Now, you've been very nice to me, and I should think so too, given the amount of hospitality I showed you while you were on Earth. In addition you're not bad looking, and I dare say you probably have most of the population of some planets – wherever they like that sort of thing – drooling over you and desperate to hop into bed with you, but that is not me. Now I'm very grateful for your help, but I'd like to go now." He stopped. He waited. Ford waited, until he was certain Arthur had finished,

"Arthur." He growled dangerously,

"Hello, yes?" Replied Arthur, sounding as dignified as he could,

"Do you honestly mean to tell me that you kissed me like _that_ and you didn't mean it?" Arthur shrugged, but in the dark, Ford couldn't see it. "I don't believe you." Said Ford, half-way between a statement of fact and exasperation. "Look. I know I'm not going to be as good as Zaphod, I mean, who the photon is?" (This with perhaps just a little bitterness) "But I'm not bad, and I do actually care...a bit...about you, which I can assure you is more than Zaphod does."

Arthur was bogged down in confusion: had this man not listened to _any_ of what he had just said?

"Ford. You could be ten times better than Zaphod, and I still wouldn't..." He stopped. There was a reason for stopping. He had just caught himself in the middle of a lie. A whopper, in fact. And his mother wouldn't have liked that (Hell, why did she have to keep poking her nose out this far?). Arthur didn't like to lie. He was, generally speaking, an honest man, and while bending the truth...quite a lot...wasn't outside his capabilities, telling this particular porky might be going a bit far. After all, although in theory he didn't really give a damn about how good someone was in bed, last night had been pretty amazing, ergo, someone ten times better, if that was possible, should probably not be sniffed at, especially if the person in question had just admitted that they...cared about you. In addition, given that he had broken his lifelong avoidance of accidentally having sex with men...and aliens for that matter, it might seem a bit churlish to utterly refuse Ford who, as Arthur had already admitted, had been very nice to him. On top of that, Ford was on top of him. Ford was on top of him in a state of total undress. All that lay between them was Arthur's towel. They had already kissed. Arthur had just let Ford do a couple of definitely-not-innocent things with his hands without kicking up much of a fuss, and he had not shouted 'Rape', even though Ford was pinning him down in a friendly sort of way and pressing his erection hard and meaningfully into Arthur's leg...

Pressing his What?!

Arthur whimpered, his own reasoning bringing him to the point of exhaustion. He couldn't even remember his first reasons for saying no any more. All he knew was that there was someone lying on top of him who cared about him, who at least _lusted_ after him enough to want to have sex in a broom cupboard, and who had really been awfully nice to him recently, leaving aside all that unpleasantness with the Earth, and the Vogons, and the trick about having an escape plan when he didn't, and nearly suffocating in space, and being assaulted by his semi-cousin, and having to take a fair amount of abuse from same. And after all, it _did_ feel right when he kissed him, and surely that was as important as anything.

Arthur had lost, and he knew it. He wondered if he could get out of the cupboard before Ford realised it too. He decided he probably couldn't.

Ford heard him whimpering and reached out to stroke his cheek, it sounded suspiciously like Arthur was giving in, to him. He missed the cheek and jammed his index finger into Arthur's left nostril. He pulled it out swiftly, hoping he hadn't lost the advantage.

"Was dat decessary?" Arthur said, rather nasally, and Ford relaxed.

"Sorry." He said, "Is it bleeding?"

"Doh." Said Arthur, and tried a careful breath through it, which convinced him that the damage probably wasn't lasting. "Could you keep your hands away from my face until you're sure where it is, please." He said, wondering how this would sound, coming from his position. Ford decided he could take it to sound quite inviting actually, and he carefully felt down to Arthur's chest and managed to stroke gently up and down without breaking the skin or sticking his fingers into any major orifice.

"You don't mind, do you?" Ford said softly, and it was more of a statement than a question. Arthur shook his head slowly, but in the dark, Ford still couldn't see it. He took Arthur's apparent silence as acquiescence and leant carefully down to him,

"You know," he said, "that was a pretty froody kiss you gave me just now. If you tell me where your lips are, I wouldn't mind trying that once more, if you promise not to stop again – I don't want to spend all morning in here, listening to you going on and on about things that don't matter." Arthur started with indignation and prepared to protest. Ford ignored him and used his opening breath to home-in on his mouth. He pressed his lips to Arthur's and grinned against him, pushing his hands behind his head as he gave in and let him start to explore his mouth.

All Arthur's worries seemed to vanish as Ford caressed his head. As he let him back down and started to run his hands further down his body, Arthur felt himself wanting to join in. Eventually, as Ford ran a firm palm down the side of his ribcage, he gave up and raised his hands to Ford's back. With a modicum of alarm, he realised that his hands had headed too far south, and were clasped neatly around two smooth, fairly firm buttocks. He was considering snatching them away, when the thought occurred that this might be rather rude, so he left them there, and let his mind wander back to the effect Ford was having on him.

Well below Zaphod's standard Ford might have been, but for some reason, it was a bit tricky to equate this known fact with what Arthur was experiencing. For one thing, he was at least as aroused as he had been with Zaphod in, what? Maybe even slightly less time? He could feel those bizarre tremors of exquisite joy staring to run through him, just as they had for the first time with Zaphod. Only this time, it felt like they might not disappear the moment Ford stopped doing...whatever it was he was doing. The fact was, whatever it was that Ford saw in Arthur, he obviously saw it more violently than he was prepared to admit. And it showed. It showed in every little flick of his wrist that sent his fingers skittering like kisses over Arthur's skin; it showed in the way he repeatedly tried to pull back from the kiss to give a little more attention to other bits of Arthur and couldn't, because he couldn't bear to drag himself away; it showed in the way that he was moaning quite unconsciously, and in a way Arthur thought he would never do consciously in front of him, and most of all it showed in the feeling Arthur was getting in his brain, which seemed to be pouring out of Ford in a torrent: a feeling of belonging, of needing, of enjoying, of _loving_.

Arthur gasped through Ford's lips as a hand slipped gently under the top of his towel and started to ease it away from his body. As the ends slipped past each other, Ford pushed himself off Arthur to pull it out from between them.

The bale on which they lay was under great strain. Ford, leaning all his weight on one elbow produced a cacophony of popping noises, and a drenching, sickly odour of lemon wafted over them. Ford grunted, and throwing the towel aside, pulled Arthur up with him, away from the aromatic heap of packages, seemingly unaware that many of them were now doomed under the instruction: 'Please discard if seal is broken'.

Staggering around in the darkness, Arthur's foot stamped through the opening of a 'junior-size' mop bucket, and became irretrievably wedged under the colander-top. He ignored it and allowed Ford to back him up against a shelf which, judging by the smell and sharp plastic corners poking into his spine, was home to an assortment of click-to-spray air-fresheners in a variety of scents, inclusive of (Arthur noticed with some part of his brain that wasn't needed at that second), forest fresh, spring breeze, yuletide something-or-other, and something else that may once have used the image of a small child running through fields of jasmine to advertise itself. Then that bit of his brain was requisitioned to help with the important task of keeping Arthur a step away from delightful unconsciousness, and he ceased to worry about the cleaning equipment, scented or otherwise.

* * *

_Terribly sorry to stop there - call it suspended pleasure, call it an irritating move on the part of the Author, or call it 'having to get up tomorrow morning and desperately wanting to get this chapter up tonight'. The last is what I'm calling it - you can choose from the list or pick your own :-) I think we all know what might happen in the next chapter, but do let me know if you'd rather I let them out of the cupboard now and just have them walk off into the sunset. (If I do, I shan't tell you what happened to Arthur's clothes, or Zaphod, or the door, or...but that's your own look-out) I probably wouldn't listen to you anyway, I'm having far too much fun with them! _


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: I tried not to leave it too long - I know, rotten to leave them where I did. Hope this makes up for it!_

**Chapter 9 – A continuation of time spent in a cupboard**

Ford had let Arthur's mouth go at long last, and had moved his head down to Arthur's chest.

"How did you find out about the bit between Zaphod's necks?" He asked indistinctly from somewhere around Arthur's diaphragm. Arthur opened his mouth, which let out a rather undignified squeak, and answered with infinite care,

"I just...wanted to know...how it felt...in there...and then I found out...what it did...to him..." He got out eventually. Ford grinned, so that Arthur could feel his facial muscles contracting across his stomach. It made him feel funny, and he flung his arm out to the side. A tray full of aerosol furniture polish took the brunt of his swinging hand, and the cans wobbled violently. One of them lost its balance and fell, clanging to the floor. Then another was caught by Arthur's retreating hand , and threw itself at his waist. Arthur shrieked at the cold metal, and brought his hands rapidly back to his sides. They landed comfortably on Ford's arms, and the fact that they started to stroke was really no fault of Arthur's.

Ford was grinning again, Arthur could feel it; lips moving softly across his lower abdomen. It t made Arthur do something that caught him completely by surprise: He started to laugh. No, more accurately, he started to giggle. Ford's lips didn't actually tickle, but they were pretty close to the mark, and moving down. Ford stopped. Arthur didn't.

"Arthur, what _are_ you doing?" Ford asked, still smiling slightly. He hadn't known Arthur to display anything remotely connected to happiness since his planet had said the short sharp goodbye; so to find him laughing in the darkness was actually a little off-putting.

"It tickles." Said Arthur, by way of explanation. Then, because it felt a lot like Ford was still staring at him, he added, "Do carry on."

The shelving was pressing hard into Arthur's back and arms. As he let his fingers drift across Ford's upper arms, he shifted to relieve the pressure. Something behind him went, 'Kerthunk, wheeee'. He froze.

"Ford, what was that?"

"Mmph?" Asked Ford, resting his cheek on Arthur's stomach in order to get a better angle at his navel.

"Something went 'Kerthunk, Wheeee'. I just don't want to be underneath it when it goes 'Kerthunk, bang'." Ford swivelled his head up so that his chin dug into Arthur's flesh in a way that Arthur found hopelessly arousing.

"Arthur, this is hardly the time to be worrying about noises." Ford said, "I think you've knocked just about everything off those shelves now anyway. There can't be anything left to fall." As it happened, Ford was wrong, but they wouldn't find this out for a while yet. In the meantime, Arthur was feeling remarkably peaceful...in a sexually over-excited sort of way. It was as if Ford were giving off some sort of drug into the air: where a few minutes ago he had felt panicky and under threat, now Arthur felt serene and content. It was therefore with considerably more composure than might have been displayed on first contact, that Arthur greeted the hot, smooth tongue that swirled deliciously around the proud, tall result of the chin episode.

"Mmmurgh..." Said Arthur happily.

"Mmmm" Replied Ford, the hum setting up a vibration that would have brought Arthur to his knees, had he not been jammed against the shelves, and had his leg not been incarcerated in a plastic bucket.

Ford felt Arthur twitch, correlated his known facts, and gently wrapped his lips around the head of Arthur's very happy penis. Letting himself rest there for a moment, he recommenced his humming, until Arthur's grip on his arms became rather too tight for comfort. Arthur was making strange little moaning noises that Ford couldn't quite place. They were either pleasure or extreme discomfort. Given the circumstances, he decided it was probably both. The thought made him smirk and he left the tip with a soft kiss and let his tongue make it's way lazily down to the base. Arthur's grip was now intolerable, and if Ford knew anything about anything, which he did, he wasn't going to last much longer. Ford took one of his hands off Arthur's back and pulled it out of Arthur's iron grip. Using his freed hand, he grasped Arthur's other wrist and pulled it off his arm. Ignoring the aching erection just inches from his face, so hot that he could feel it on his cheek, he kissed Arthur's fingers, sliding his lips down them in a tantalising demonstration of what he might equally well get up to on a more deserving part of Arthur's anatomy.

Arthur groaned,

"Ford, you're not just going to leave me like this are you? " He asked, in a rather high-pitched voice. Ford responded in his lowest and most seductive growl,

"Why? Is it a problem?" Arthur made a noise that Ford thought was meant to be a disbelieving 'Huh', but which somehow didn't come out quite right. He grinned again, and a wave of recklessness swept through the cupboard. It missed Arthur, who was too busy contemplating the fact that he had just been cheated out of what had looked geared up to be an extremely satisfying orgasm, and which now was just starting to retreat, leaving a satisfaction quotient of almost zero in its wake.

At which point, Ford noticed a certain air of incipient deflation hanging about Arthur, and he let go of the hand and transferred his lips back to the silky skin by his cheek. Any ideas Arthur's penis might have had about calming down were swiftly put to bed as Ford roamed up and down. His fingers were down at the base, stroking and ever-so-gently rolling his balls as if he were patting vermicelli onto delicate chocolate truffles. His other hand spread lightly over Arthur's bottom and twiddled and stroked the light covering of downy hair. He ran his finger along the faint crease where bottom turned into thigh, and Arthur sagged,

"Ford!" He croaked, this time sure that Ford would take him all the way. Ford felt the mounting pressure and winked to himself. His fingers wrapped around the base and, just as Arthur thought that this was it, he squeezed in a firm little pinch and laughed as Arthur moaned with disappointment.

Ford reached up to Arthur's shoulders and pulled him down to the ground. The bucket clattered and scraped across the floor, before clunking loudly against the door as Arthur sat down heavily, wincing slightly as his back banged down the shelving. He was lying on their towels, the runckled fabric pressing patterns into the skin at the base of his spine. His left arm was wedged against the plastic-wrapped softness of the scented bale, and his head, when he let it fall back, rested on bundles of unused dishcloths, their paper bands crackling as he sank into them.

Ford was carefully moving up his body, concentrating on not brushing against Arthur's groin in the darkness. He placed his lips just below Arthur's jawline and nipped at the skin there. Arthur gulped.

"Not fair, Ford." He whispered, not trusting his vocal cords to do anything at all. However, he no longer sounded annoyed, he sounded hopelessly smitten. He sounded like a man who thinks he's up for a pretty big reward if he just lets the world turn on its own around him. He brought his hand up and laced his fingers through Ford's hair. They buzzed with the sensation of twisting curls, and he strained his lips round to meet Ford's skin in the soft curve of eye-socket next to his temple. He could feel Ford grinning again, grinning as if he would never stop. Ford noticed _himself_ grinning again, and wondered vaguely why he couldn't stop. The thought made him grin even more broadly into Arthur's neck, until Arthur felt like the world was about to swallow him whole.

Ford's hand was back between his legs, stroking and teasing, bringing him back to the edge. 'Surely this time...' Arthur thought incoherently, his senses whirling in the maelstrom of passion and energy that Fords tortuous efforts were creating. His hands jerked in Ford's hair, and breathing started to seem unimportant. His other hand slammed into the shelving again and a stack of pink rubber gloves with boa trim clung desperately to the top shelf before, fingers clawing hopelessly at the air, they fell with latexy whoops towards the figures on the floor. Arthur felt the first, as it slapped playfully across his forehead. Another landed on Ford's bottom, it's fingers spread, its feathers tickling the insides of his thighs, making him wriggle. A third came blatting onto Arthur's shoulder, alongside Ford's own hand, causing Arthur to think that this was rather like being in bed with Zaphod all over again. The fourth landed slap in the middle of Ford's back, where Arthur's hand found it moments later, before that hand was covered by a fifth glove. As Arthur shook the hand to get rid of the two offenders, they slid agonisingly slowly down Ford's and his sides, tickling feathers across their over-sensitized ribs. Ten more landed around Arthur's head, so that as Ford managed to prise his mind back to the job in hand, and Arthur's head turned from side to side in response, he alternately got a nose-full of rubber and feathers that made him sneeze and Ford laugh.

The onslaught seemed to stop there, and Ford crept back away from Arthur's head, trailing lips and hands down his torso. One of his hands lingered at Arthur's nipples, and the tender flesh sent crackling bolts of desire rocketing through Arthur's body. He could feel the glow again, warm tightness pooling somewhere in the lowest part of his abdomen. Ford's breath was warm on his testicles and this time, nothing would stop him, not Ford, not anything.

The tightness was achingly ready and Ford was just backing off again, grinning like a maniac, when the remains of the pile on the top shelf completed their slow slide off, and twenty-seven gloves cascaded down on Ford's head and Arthur's stomach. There was a soft beeping like a door being unlocked, and a blinding shaft of light flooded the cupboard.

Ford's hands were clutched tight around Arthur as he raised his head in disbelief,

"Dear suffering Zarquon!" He cried, "Can't a man get any privacy around here?" He squinted into the light, but his attention was brought back to the cupboard by Arthur, for whom nothing now made the slightest bit of difference until he had finished what he was doing, which happened to be completing an extremely satisfying and utterly mind-blowing orgasm. His hips came to rest and settled back down to the floor on a carpet of pink. Bits of boa stuck proudly out of his pubic hair, and as Zaphod watched, a single detached feather floated down from Ford's hair and stuck right on the tip of Arthur's slowly dropping penis, taking the slow ride down to join its friends.

Zaphod's heads seemed to be in conference for a few seconds, before they settled on an exit line.

"At least I have a really good reason not to do cleaning round here now." Said the heads in unison, and the door closed.

"Belgium." Said Ford bitterly.

"Oh, come on, it doesn't really matter, does it?" Arthur asked reasonably, starting to feel incredibly dopey. "It's not as if Zaphod hasn't seen..."

"Oh it's not that." Ford interrupted irritably, "Zaph knew I wanted to anyway. It's just, I missed it. I spent all that time building you up to that, and I pretty well missed the whole zarking lot." He felt Arthur's mystified gaze upon him in the darkness and explained, "I wanted to give you the best zarking orgasm you'd ever had, and I wanted to feel it with you. Zaphod distracted me, and I missed it." Arthur blinked rapidly; his eyelashes brushed down Ford's forehead, he was very close; he had meant to be further away.

"Ford..." He said, and stopped, not sure whether to go on or not. Heavy breathing to match his own convinced him,

"I'm sorry you missed it. But it was...it was incredible. I mean, it was more than I felt with Zaphod. I mean..." He stopped. Ford stared at him across the blackness, Arthur felt his eyes starting to water again,

"Really?" Ford asked, a tone of suspicion in his voice.

"Mmmhmm." Said Arthur seriously.

Ford leant in, poked his nose into the corner of Arthur's eye, pulled back, tried again, and kissed him as if he hadn't had the chance before. When he pulled back again, Arthur asked,

"Ford, did you always want...?"

"Always." Ford interrupted firmly. Arthur jumped. Deja vu was one thing, but this was ridiculous.

"We've had this conversation before." He said, nervously.

* * *

_How much is Arthur going to remember? How are he and Ford going to exit the boom cupboard with any dignity at all? What is Zaphod's real reaction to his discovery? Is Ford going to get any reciprocation from Arthur? Just how much damage has been done to the _Heart of Gold_'s cleaning supplies? Is Marvin due for feather-cleaning duties? Please review and I'll look at the rotas for you _;D 


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: Apologies for the delay, it's been one of those weeks _:- _Thanks for the reviews, I'm so glad you're enjoying it - mind you, I think it's pretty hard to go wrong with Ford/Arthur! _x-)

**Chapter10 – In which very small amounts of very strong alcohol are consumed**

Ford looked quizzically at Arthur, but it didn't help, as they were still in pitch blackness.

"What do you mean?" He asked, "'We've had this conversation before.' When?"

Arthur wriggled uncomfortably – the floor really wasn't so appealing once you came down,

"I don't know. It just feels...I've definitely had that conversation with you before. I don't know. I get a feeling with it...like I was interrupted..."

"We were. Remember?" Ford said slightly bitterly,

"No, no, not just now." Arthur waved irritably at him, caught his fingers in soft curls and stopped. He thought for a second and shook his head,

"It doesn't matter." He said. He wrapped his fingers more tightly in the curls and pulled Ford back to him. His hands stroked down Ford's back and down over the points of his hips into the warm, excitable space between them.

Light streamed into the cupboard once more. Trillian peered in. There was a pause.

"Zaphod told me you needed to see me," she said, "I guess he was lying... Sorry." And with a quick appraising glance, she was gone. The door closed again. There was a long pause, when silent forces somehow told Ford and Arthur that if they pretended that hadn't just happened, perhaps it would turn out to be a cleaning-chemical-induced dream...

"You were saying we were interrupted?" Ford said evenly, Arthur unfroze, another ray of light, this one in his head, briefly illuminated another shard of memory,

"I was...insulted." He said. Ford rolled off him and yanked his towel out from under them to pull around his shoulders.

"Yeah, well, Zaph's like that sometimes." Arthur shook his head,

"No, not Zaphod."

"Who then?"

"I don't know." Ford tutted and got up, bashing his head on the tray of aerosols hanging halfway off the shelf, and sending them crashing to the floor, mostly onto Arthur.

"Ow!" Said Arthur. Ford ignored him,

"I need a drink. Come on." He opened the door, flung his towel about his waist and looked down at Arthur, lying in a pool of feathers, a burgeoning bruise on his arm where an aerosol had hit him squarely, and another glancing blow on his cheek starting to make a passable impression of a black eye. Ford's expression softened a little and he reached out his hand. Arthur took it with slight reluctance and Ford pulled him to his feet.

"Oh, for zark's sake Arthur, put your towel on." He said, as Arthur started to move towards the door. Arthur grabbed his flattened, creased towel, brushed the worst of the feathers off it, and wrapped it around his midriff.

"You owe me one." Ford said as they turned to leave the broom cupboard.

They were halted by a considerable amount of metal, shaped in a roughly humanoid form, and standing directly outside the cupboard door, tutting to itself.

"I suppose you think that mess in there will just disappear by itself do you?" Marvin droned, "No , don't answer, I know what you're going to say. You're going to ask me if I wouldn't mind clearing it up. Would I mind? Do I have a choice. Anyway, what right have I to mind? I'm just a menial robot. What else could I possibly be good for? And me with this terrible pain..."

"Yes, yes." Butted in Ford,

"...in all the diodes down my left side. Well? Do you want me to clear it up?" He stopped, inclined his head with a mechanical whirr to a precisely calculated angle that put across perfectly the depths of his loathing for the task, and waited. Ford and Arthur looked at him, towels firmly grasped in their hands,

"Uh, yeah, you do that." said Ford at last. He hurried off down the corridor, and Arthur smiled apologetically at Marvin – mostly out of habit – and followed.

By the time he caught up with Ford, he had reached the galley. Ford was looking through all the cupboards muttering,

"Alcohol, alcohol..."

"Alcohol?" Asked Arthur, in rather a school-teachery tone, "At this time in the morning?" Ford emerged from a cupboard holding a tall, blue, plastic bottle. He held it up to the light and swirled it. The contents glooped like syrup up the walls of the bottle. Ford pulled a displeased face and put it down on the side before sticking his head back in the cupboard. Arthur sniffed, trying to look superior, but a general post-coital doziness, coupled with a state of semi-undress reduced his attempt to a sort of half-hearted sneer.

"Well, if you're going to get drunk, then I'm going to have a shower and go back to bed."

"Arthur." Ford interrupted from the depths of the cupboard, Arthur didn't notice.

"Heaven knows where my clothes have gone. I expect someone cleared my pyjamas away,"

"Arthur." Again, Arthur failed to hear.

"Perhaps threw them in the rubbish, I wouldn't be at all surprised. My"

"Arthur." Less calmly this time.

"Dressing gown is another matter. If that has gone missing, someone will have to answer for it. I know I owe you. I suppose "

"Arthur" With still less cool.

"Being repeatedly interrupted...Good God! People saw us...us doing...Hell, Trillian saw us. I...I'm going to go and have a lie down, and when I wake up,"

"Arthur." Desperately trying to keep a lid on his temper now.

"I expect everything to be normal again. I will not have these terrifying feelings of deja vu, I will not find it normal to"

"Arthur." A little resigned.

"Have people walking in on me when I'm...and I will not be seduced by you again...except of course that I do owe you a return on that last little escapade, and I suppose it would be churlish to refuse. But I would like you to remember that it is only my honour as an Englishman that makes me do it. I will see you when you're sober again." Arthur finished. Ford's head appeared above the cupboard door. His hand held a greenish bottle with considerably more liquid in it than the previous specimen.

"Arthur, you are going to get drunk with me." He got to his feet and brought both bottles over to the table.

"Oho!" Said Arthur, actually managing to articulate the two syllables of that improbable ejaculation. Ford looked at him for a second, wondering if Arthur was going to furnish him with any more story-book outbursts. He didn't. Instead he said, "Am I?" in wholly disbelieving tones that said 'If you think that, my good man, you are horribly deceived.' Ford put the bottles down and came around the table to Arthur. He put his hands on his bare shoulders, which made Arthur take in rather a deep breath for so early in the morning. Ford guided him to a chair and pushed him into it. Then he pulled up another chair next to him and sat down, gazing into his eyes.

"Yes, you are. At least then, as many people can walk in and out as want to without it mattering, and at least we'll have achieved something with our morning." His blue eyes were agonisingly open and Arthur was falling into them. His vision blurred and he desperately wanted to blink, but he was still being sucked forward towards those achingly blue irises. He jumped as his nose touched Ford's. Ford tutted and grabbed Arthur's chin with his hand. He kissed his lips briefly, let go and turned away from him.

"So, are you getting drunk with me then?" He asked, still not looking at Arthur, as he took the tops off the two bottles. Arthur nodded miserably. He felt like he didn't have a choice any more. Ford looked round and caught the end of the nod. He grinned,

"Good." He said. With his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth, he carefully decanted the contents of the green bottle into the blue bottle.

"What is that?" Arthur asked cautiously. Ford finished his pouring, put the green bottle down, put the lid back on the blue bottle and shook it vigorously,

"I have...no idea." He said as he opened the bottle and sniffed it. He quickly got his nose as far away from it as he could, "Smells good though." He said wheezily.

Ford reached behind himself to the Nutri-Matic and called,

"Two cups please." The machine whirred for a second, then spoke,

"What would you like in your two cups? I can produce a variety of hot and cold beverages to suit your individual..."

"Shut up, and just give me two cups on their own, with nothing in them." Ford cut it off.

"You are sure you do not want a hot or cold beverage in your two cups?" The machine asked hopefully,

"Absolutely sure, just give me two cups." The Nutri-Matic whirred again and six cups fell into Ford's hand. He looked around, eyes blazing at the machine,

"Did I ask for six cups?" He asked dangerously. The machine replied with unfailing cheeriness,

"No, you asked for two cups, three times. I have therefore issued six cups. Share and enjoy." For a moment it seemed that Ford would get up and do some permanent damage to the Nutri-Matic, and probably to his foot at the same time, but he seemed to think better of it and remained seated. He put two of the cups down in front of him and gingerly poured some of the liquid into them. The plastic of the cups seemed to fizz and bubble a little, but after some initial smoking, it calmed down and the liquid stayed inside the cups. Arthur looked at the one Ford pushed across to him with distinct apprehension,

"Are you sure this is safe, Ford?" He asked. Ford brought his own cup up to his lips,

"No." He said cheerfully, and drained the cup.

If the colour drained a little from Ford's cheeks, if he seemed to stifle a coughing fit, if something inside him threatened to let him see the drink he'd just downed one last time, he controlled these sensations admirably. Ford hadn't spent years gaining a reputation as a master drinker, just to be unable to cope with a little store cupboard concoction. All the same, this was _Zaphod's_ store cupboard we're talking about, and the sort of alcohol Zaphod tended to keep in his store cupboards could, at the least, be described as 'having a bit of a kick', and, with a little less understatement, as 'being a real and immediate threat to the well-being of the universe'. Arthur had known Ford long enough to know that a good strong whisky was mother's milk to him, and to know what signs to look for when judging the relative strengths of drinks. The slight discolouration and fractional widening of his eyes was therefore a blazing beacon to Arthur that this would be a drink to be approached with extreme caution.

"Um...how is it?" He asked.

"Faaaah...n" Said Ford, a sort of airy rattle in his throat belying his contented smile.

"Fine?" Arthur asked.

"Mmm. Try't." Ford waved his hand at Arthur's cup, coming perilously close to knocking it over.

Perhaps the fact the just one gulp of this mixture had started to hijack whole syllables of Ford's sentences in under ten seconds should have warned Arthur that, in fact, he should run now, and not touch a drop of it. Unfortunately, there was now, playing over and over in Arthur's head, the image of Trillian standing at the door, gazing down at him in all his glory, now and then supplemented with a picture of Zaphod leaning over her shoulder. In many ways, Arthur thought, getting rid of those images for a couple of hours would probably be quite comforting. He picked up the cup. He raised it to his lips, he tilted it, he threw back his head and let the drink fly down his throat. His arm jerked out and he threw the cup across the room. Ford lurched forward uncertainly to catch him as he wobbled sideways on his chair.

From his nasal cavity, all the way down the back of his throat and into his very stomach, Arthur could feel every millimetre that the drink or its vapours had touched. His throat muscles spasmed, a raw, scoured feeling shot through him, and little pyrotechnics started to go off in his stomach and his head. The hand clutching at his upper arm seemed a very long way away, though it was gripping so hard that it was clear that it was doing this more by way of supporting Ford than in order to keep Arthur upright. The room was spinning at the rate he would usually expect to have encountered at around two in the morning after a night spent not paying attention, in a bar with a lot of very generous people, who only considered they'd paid their way in terms of rounds if that round was 'something-and-a-nice-strong-chaser'. One drink should not do this to you.

"Jushinkishgoo?" Asked Ford. Arthur looked at him. He couldn't possibly have worked out what Ford had said, let alone formed an answer, so he just nodded blearily, which seemed to please Ford.

Ford had managed to let go of Arthur's arm and get himself back into a position of equilibrium in the centre of his chair. With an expression of the utmost concentration, and with rather a lot of moving his head from side to side, he managed to grab hold of the bottle by bringing his hands in from both sides and catching it unawares in the middle. He pulled a cup towards him and slowly lifted the bottle. With the painstaking care of someone who knows the importance of keeping the alcohol safe when you're drunk, he tipped the bottle up, using his other hand to measure the distance between it's mouth and the lip of the cup. After about twenty-five seconds, he managed to manoeuvre it past the rim and tip it up. Despite a couple of shaky moments when it looked like cup and bottle would go over together, he eventually lifted both with a look of triumph, and setting the cup down on the table again, he pushed it slowly over to Arthur, before repeating the whole complicated business on a second cup.

As the second helping seared its way down Arthur's throat, and apparently straight into his brain as well, his elbow slipped off the table and he sank sideways onto the floor. Ford downed his own drink as quickly as reasonably possible without getting it over his shirt or in his eye, and let himself down to the ground. He crawled to Arthur's unmoving form and put his arm under him and pulled him up to sitting.

"y'righ?" He asked. Arthur turned glazed eyes on him and his head sank onto Ford's shoulder. Ford blinked a couple of times and looked up at the bottle on the table above. To be honest, although another drink would be nice, the effort involved appeared astronomical, so he decided against reaching for it, and instead turned back to Arthur, whose head was a dead-weight he couldn't feel.

Lack of concentration caused Ford to relax rather too much, and he fell back, Arthur still pressed tightly to him. The floor was soft as a feather bed and sleep seemed like an awfully good idea, but someone was in the galley. From a long way off, Ford could hear his name being called. It was a question, then an order, then an irritated snap.

"Ford, if you and monkey man have finished off the Svantistynian Barrel Water I was saving, you are going to get it, and not like you got it last night." Zaphod turned to go, then an afterthought turned him back long enough to say, "Either of you." Ford rolled over, half crushing Arthur, and slept soundly on.

* * *

_What exactly have Ford and Arthur been drinking? Will Arthur recover enough to ever forgive Ford for making him drink it? Will his forgiveness and his sobriety ever extend to the point where he can give Ford his share of the excitement? Have they drunk Zaphod's stocks of rare and exciting drinks? Will Zaphod ever forgive them, or does his disgruntlement run deeper than the looted drink? How long will they be on the floor of the galley? Will this remind Arthur of any more of his missing evening, or will it push it further away? A few reviews should sober them up enough to answer some of these exciting questions... _


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: Okay, I feel really bad about this chapter, it's not fair, not fair at all, but as you pointed out SV, it was bound to happen.__Well MD, here's your answer for what was in the drink. Not entirely what a sane being would want maybe, but you can draw your own conclusions as to what it actually is ;-) Share and enjoy!_

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**  
Chapter 11- A desperately unfair chapter in which the author inflicts unnecessarily great suffering on an undeserving individual.**

Arthur moved his foot, and the mop-bucket he had successfully ignored up until now clattered on the floor, making his head spin and throb and his stomach make odd flipping movements in response.

There was a bang that seemed to echo two or three times around the room, clouting him on the head with every pass. He groaned and tried to open his eyes and sit up to find out what had caused this frightful noise. The bright light hit him with full and devastating force, shining (as far as Arthur could tell,) right to the back of his skull, just before the movement sent his brain skidding around inside his head and his stomach reeling up towards his throat.

Taking all sensible precautions, Arthur shut his eyes, put his head safely back on the floor, swallowed hard and tried desperately to think of things that were in no way related to swaying, spinning, toilet bowls, or food - either in its uneaten, or its semi-digested form.

'Nice cold tiles,' he thought, 'Art Deco furniture,' he thought, 'sea air,' he thought, '...the sea...fish...oysters fresh in their shells, slithering...oh dear!' He gulped, and moaned again. The faint sound assaulted his ears like a trumpet voluntary in a metal dustbin, and the footsteps that followed it past his head were like a twenty-one gun salute that threatened to split his head in two right down the middle.

Someone was bending over him, murmuring like a foghorn in his ear, each muttered syllable as crisp as the crunch of a granny smith in his aural passages.

"I found your dressing gown. Someone's going to be very stiff when they get up. What on Earth were you drinking this morning?" Arthur snuffled something unintelligible and wondered when the drummer had taken up residence in his head. Something warm and vaguely fluffy was laid over him. He winced as it rubbed softly and happily against his bare chest, then wished he hadn't because it had made the world spin again.

"Want some water?" Asked the voice. Arthur considered, with the small part of his brain that still seemed to be alive; he sent out questions to his body regarding the need for water, and was rewarded with the information that his tongue was probably going to take most of the roof of his mouth with it when he peeled it off, that his lips were doing a fairly decent impression of the more fiddling parts of the Grand Canyon, and his throat would probably need major reconstructive surgery if he attempted to swallow anything more spiky than double cream. 'Double cream...urgh,' he thought..

"I'll get you some." Said the Voice, and was gone, leaving only a faint buzzing sound in its wake.

There was a noise like Niagara Falls from close to, and in seconds, a vibrant, earth-shattering sentence boomed round the walls. It pummelled Arthur's brain six or seven times for good measure and left him wishing he could move enough to curl up in a ball and have a good cry.

"SHARE AND ENJOY" it said.

The canon-blast footsteps were marching towards him again, and a hand was on the top of his head.

"Here, drink this, you need to get rehydrated." Slammed through his ears, and made Arthur wish he could get out something sarcastic about 'useful information' and 'helpful' comments, but he couldn't. The hand under his head was trying to raise it up. Now to go with the pounding as his brain slammed backwards and forwards in his skull, he had his neck to contend with; it felt like he had just spent ten hours lying on a sheet of metal, which in fact he had, and had had someone twisting it backwards and forwards to an unnatural degree for at least five of those hours, which, unless we just missed something important, he hadn't.

A plastic cup was at his lips and he reflexively opened them, letting some of the cool liquid pour down his throat. He was just thinking 'I'll never be able to drink enough,' when lack of controlled motor functions made the water go down the wrong way and a hacking, gasping, spluttering coughing fit overcame him. When his head cleared a little and the drummer calmed down from his enthusiastic solo, the hand that went with the Voice was still supporting his head.

"You're supposed to drink it, Arthur." It said. The second chance for a sarcastic comment came and went, as Arthur wrestled with the information he had. 'Sounds...female...' he thought. 'Must be Trillian...' He struggled to make that mean something, but all the other information seemed to be hidden behind the drummer.

More water. This time, more of it made it to his stomach. It was sweet – someone had topped it up with glucose. The sweetness made him gag and he shook his head in disgust.

'Bad plan Arthur.' Said his brain through a hazy, thumping fug, and his head was gently rested back on the floor.

Just when Arthur was considering a trial, wafer-thin opening of his eyes, something hit him hard in the upper arm, sending super-enhanced pain washing all over him. Beside him, something stirred. Something yawned half-heartedly. Something said,

"OAAUAHGHGHUEUCH. OW." Rather loudly.

'Must be...Ford?' thought Arthur. He tried to remember. Ah, yes, he had been _drinking_ with Ford...hadn't he? He hadn't actually drunk very much though...as far as he could remember. Mind you, this hangover was suggestive of an evening where events could easily have gone absent without leave. No...Trillian had said a morning...a morning? Oh yes. They'd been in that cupboard. Which was why he had a...a mop bucket on his foot. He groaned again. Next to him Ford sat up slowly.

"I NEED," He said, in a voice that Arthur was sure was loud enough to alert the whole ship, "A GOOD FRY-UP." Arthur thought about groaning again, then decided against it because groans were made in your throat, and your throat was close to your stomach, and your stomach was where the food went, and whence it could quite conceivably return. His lip trembled instead and he felt cool waves of sweat washing over his cheeks and down his neck.

"YOU'RE FEELING BETTER THAN ARTHUR THEN?" Asked the Voice-that-was-probably-Trillian.

"OH." Bellowed Ford quietly. "AH, MY HEAD'S NOT AT ITS BEST THIS MORNING."

"EVENING, YOU MEAN." Said Trillian. "WHAT _WERE_ YOU DRINKING?" She asked.

"NO IDEA. IT WAS GOOD THOUGH, WHATEVER IT WAS."

At last Arthur managed to get his right eye to open a fraction of an inch. The light passing between his eyelashes was just about bearable, and he turned his head gingerly to the side to take in the blurry general scene in the galley.

Ford was staggering towards the Nutri-Matic, each step swaying him dangerously to one side as he remained in a half squatting posture, as if standing upright still didn't seem like that great an idea. There was a humming sound and a terrible, nauseating aroma of fried bacon and eggs raced itself to Arthur's nostrils and filled his whole body with fear and intense concentration. When he opened his eyes once more, Ford was sitting at the table, his head in one hand, propped up on his elbow, and prodding at the fry-up with a fork. Arthur watched in disbelief as forkfuls started to disappear into Ford's mouth, the scraping of the cutlery on the plate like the screech of a train emergency-braking. When he had finished, Ford ordered something that smelled like it might have been Irish coffee from the machine and sat at the table with it wrapped in his hands, his head about six inches off the table, looking studiedly into the distance. Trillian was sat near him and she looked down at Arthur and smiled when she caught sight of the minuscule gap between his eyelids.

"WANT SOME FOOD ARTHUR?" She asked. He closed his eyes again. No. He didn't. He wanted the walls to cave in on him, the ship to blow up, anything, so long as it was quick.

Another tentative opening of the eyes showed some colour returning to Ford's cheeks. He was looking now as if he had a bad cold, but he didn't look as though he was about to die or keel over. 'Odd.' Thought Arthur, 'He drank at least as much as me. Damn him.'

Ford looked down from the table at Arthur and said in a voice that even Arthur considered nicely hushed,

"Holy Zarquon, he doesn't look good does he? Maybe we'd better be a bit quiet. I'm guessing it would help." Trillian nodded, smiling knowingly to herself in a way that Arthur marked down as sarcastic-remark-fodder number three.

"Okay. You keep an eye on him, I'll go get some painkillers – I think he could do with a couple. What about you?" Ford looked at her in surprise.

"Painkillers?" She shrugged and left the room. Arthur closed his eyes again and thought of all the ways he would like to get Ford back for being almost perfectly alright when he, Arthur, was quite clearly dying. His pleasant reverie was shattered by the loudest sound he had yet heard.

It consisted of footsteps worthy of a thirty-ton mega-elephant; a rather cool but devastatingly loud whistling; and an unnecessarily loud,

"Oh, you're awake. Ready to explain?"

A painful heave of one eyelid permitted Arthur to observe Ford waving his hands frantically at Zaphod to make him quieten down.

"Hey, what?" Said Zaphod's right head.

"Be quiet in my own galley?" Said the left head. "Zarquon Ford, you and monkey man drank the stuff, what do you expect? Sympathy?" Ford was shushing him again,

"I was just looking for a drink. I didn't know it was anything special, I just found it in the cupboard. You shouldn't leave it lying around if you don't want me to drink it, should you?

"It was good stuff though." He added as an afterthought, in a voice he specially reserved for fantasising about drink and dancing with girls. "What was it?"

"IT _WAS_ SVANTISTYNIAN BARREL WATER, ONE OF THE MOST RARE AND FAIRLY POTENT SPIRITS IN THE KNOWN UNIVERSE, AND...I'M NOT SURE...WHAT WAS IN THE OTHER BOTTLE?"

"Which one was the Barrel Water? The Blue gloopy one or the green messy one?" Asked Ford, shushing Zaphod again.

"THE GREEN ONE." Said Zaphod, and Arthur's head started to pound even harder. "SO THE BLUE GLOOPY ONE WAS...I'M NOT SURE. I THINK MAYBE IT WAS A SAMPLE I GOT OFF SOME TETREBLYXINIAN WOMAN. SHE GAVE IT TO ME IN RETURN FOR TWO NIGHTS OF REALLY WILD SEX. I THINK IT WAS A COMPLIMENT. HELL, I'LL NEVER FIND HER TO GET ANOTHER ONE. SHAME, WE COULD HAVE MARKETED IT, LOOKS BETTER THAN A PAN GALACTIC GARGLE BLASTER FROM WHERE I'M STANDING."

"That's one hell of a recipe." Said Ford, "'Take three parts Svantistynian Barrel Water and one part bodily fluid of Tetreblyxinian female, shake, and serve near floor level' ."

"IT'S A WINNER, BABY." said Zaphod, and whooped enthusiastically.

Arthur gave up the fight and carefully turned over and leant as far as he could, before throwing up vigorously and flopping back, green and panting. Almost before he had finished, the sound of mechanical whirring and earth-tremor stamping came along the corridor, accompanied by a familiar monologue,

"...as if I wanted to clean the cupboard, and get feathers into my joints and vents that I'll have to spend hours fishing out; and now they vomit all over the galley floor. Well, I can see it coming, 'Marvin, clean the floor.' Marvin clean the floor! Oh yes, I was designed with this exceptionally large brain just so that I could perform general cleaning duties to the highest possible standard maybe? You can just see them can't you – the handy extra limbs in the shapes of mops and dusters and vacuum cleaners, just so that I can perform my core tasks with the minimum of accessory equipment. No? Neither can I. Must mean something, though I dare say..." Ford groaned maniacally. Apparently his recovery was not sufficient to cope with Marvin yet. As the robot started to clean the floor, never letting up his unending stream of misery and complaint, from which Arthur retreated as well as he could, Ford turned on Zaphod, and before Zaphod could stop him, he was pressing him against the wall, glaring furiously at him.

"Not content with telling me off for drinking alcohol you'd left where anyone could find it, you have to keep on shouting don't you, make Arthur throw up so now we've got that zarking robot to listen to. Thanks a bunch." Said Ford, and stared straight into the eyes of Zaphod's left head. Zaphod's expression changed, from his original anger, through terror he simply could not disguise with any amount of cool, and on to a rather ashamed look that begged for forgiveness, while somehow also pretending absolute innocence, which may have been, but more likely than not wasn't, real.

"Photons fry you." Said Ford grumpily. He leant forward and kissed Zaphod roughly. "You keep good cupboards."

"Oh, really." Said Arthur's brain, in a voice of perfectly English disapproval. On the outside he groaned as Marvin's mop came within inches of his face, and lemon-scented cleaning fluid threw his mind back to memories of time spent in a cupboard; and debts owing.

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_Is that it? Is Ford forgiven for his theft? Or is Zaphod just practising a little self-preservation? And with all apologies to Arthur for his shameful treatment, how long will it be before he can get up and face paying his debt and giving us a chapter that's worth the M rating it's written in? Reviews might just prove to be a Prairie Oyster that actually works! _


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: I think it's probably fair to say that Arthur still hasn't quite recovered. I tried to help him out, but he was having none of it. I can't get them to do what they don't want to ;-) Still, it's an improvement for him I think..._

_(Apologies for the brazenly stolen and re-modelled Red Dwarf line in here - it wouldn't let me go unless I used it – A really wild night with Zaph to anyone who spots it!)_

**Chapter 12 – Indicating how feeling better and 'feeling better' are not quite the same thing.**

Arthur opened his eyes. He had been dozing. No, he had been sleeping. Sometime just around when Ford had stormed out of the kitchen, closely followed by Zaphod, he must have managed to nod off. He blinked a couple of times. This was good. This was much better. The lights were pretty much bearable now, and so far, the drummer in his head seemed to have gone off into a trance, and was just bumping the bass drum lightly every now and again. He put his hands behind him on the floor and sat up.

No. No. Too quick. Not _that_ recovered yet. Still, it felt like the contents of his stomach – what was left of them – were planning on making their stay down there permanent now. It was a slightly better picture around his neck too: still stiff as hell, but everything didn't ache quite so much.

Arthur carefully manoeuvred himself onto his knees and got to his feet. He lost his balance and staggered into the table. He grumbled in a discontented sort of way, and managed to steer himself into a chair. He put his arms on the table and rested his head down on it. The drummer tapped out a stronger bass rhythm for a while, but soon lost interest and returned to his irregular thumping.

Trillian entered the galley.

"Hi Arthur," she said, "Feeling better? You look better."

"Mmph." Said Arthur. At least she sounded a reasonably normal volume now.

"I brought you some painkillers earlier, but you were asleep. Do you want them?"

"No." Said Arthur, amazed that he could speak at all, and feeling his dry lips crack as they moved to form the 'o'. "Do you know where Ford is?" He half whispered. Then he opened his eyes and turned them with frank surprise on Trillian: he hadn't meant to say that. It had just sort of come out. Why the hell should he care where Ford was? After all, he was the one who had made him feel like this.

"I think he's on the Bridge. Why? Do you want me to get him for you?"

"Yes." Said Arthur, and his eyes widened even further. He had meant to say no.

Trillian looked at him curiously.

"Are you alright, Arthur? Better have some water. Your lip's bleeding by the way." Arthur raised an uncooperative arm and wiped his fingers across his lips. One of the deep cracks was indeed oozing a drop of blood, and he closed his eyes in despair. Great. That just made his day complete, really.

Trillian placed a glass of water in front of him and swept out of the kitchen with a nod,

"I'll go get Ford for you." Arthur tried to call her back, to stop her, but he couldn't work up the energy. He reached forward and swirled the glass around in its own little pool of condensation. He tilted it to his lips. Half of the water spilled over, soothing his chapped lips. The rest did wonders for his throat, the spikiness and rasping dryness starting to dissipate. He rubbed his hand over his face, digging his thumb and middle finger into his eyes, scraping out the sand piled high in the corners.

Ford came into the kitchen, practically bounding. He looked like a man who had just been on a health binge for a month and wanted to show the world how great he was feeling. He did not look like a man who had woken up with a mouth like a desert, a head thumping like the final of the Galactic Boxing Championships, and a body so unresponsive that the ship could have been in a screaming nosedive, and a small wave of the hand would have been about the most he could have managed by way of fleeing for his life. He looked healthy; he looked revitalised; he looked...delicious... It made Arthur want to kill him. Not only was he butting in on Arthur's legitimate recuperation time, but he was doing it cheerfully and with no regard for the fact that he should, himself, be looking like Arthur, and, to make matters worse, Arthur could not make himself hate him for it. He just couldn't. In fact, his brain was contentedly leaning on the metaphorical garden fence somewhere in his skull, and chatting to his inner monologue about how charming Ford looked, how fresh and touchable his skin seemed to be, how very pleasant it would be (if only the drummer would give up and go home) to spend some time investigating just how fresh and lovely the rest of his body was...The bit of Arthur that knew how it _ought _to be feeling about Ford gave a little moan and turned its back on the conversation.

Ford was leaning on the table right next to him, his head on one side down at table level, so that he could look straight into his eyes.

"What you need," He said, in a ridiculously confident voice, "Is a bit of food inside you. Here." He went over to the Nutri-Matic and ordered. The repeated odour of bacon and eggs hit Arthur somewhere halfway down his throat and he swallowed hard.

"Go on, have some of that, it'll do you no end of good." Said Ford, sliding the greasy plate in front of him.

"I don't think..." Said Arthur.

"Trust me." Said Ford, "I've dealt with more hangovers than you've had junk mail. I know what I'm talking about." He looked expectantly at Arthur, who picked up the fork and pushed some of the bacon around on the plate. He stabbed some of it listlessly, holding the fork as far from the prongs as possible. He looked back at Ford. He was looking straight at Arthur, his eyes unblinking and blue blue blue blue blue blue blue...

"Arthur." Ford said sharply. Arthur blinked and shook himself. He lifted the fork and brought it to his lips. The smell wafted deeply into his lungs and he backed off. Ford tutted, grabbed his chin, picked up a piece of bacon with his fingers and, before Arthur had time to complain or move, pushed it between his lips. He followed it with his finger, making sure it was in all the way, before retracting his finger more slowly and sensuously, enclosed by Arthur's lips, than Arthur felt was strictly necessary.

Arthur chewed slowly. He swallowed. It didn't seem so bad. Ford had picked up another piece of bacon.

"Smells good." He said, and tore off half the rasher with his teeth before poking the rest without ceremony into Arthur's mouth.

Half of Arthur felt extremely indignant at this: What did Ford think he was? An imbecile? But the other half ignored the stupidity of Ford's actions and just hugged itself deep inside and thought pleasant thoughts about sharing food and sucking fingers. Arthur cursed himself for this and then cursed Ford for being right. He was starting to feel a lot better: The eggs on the plate were starting to look less like his mortal enemies and more like breakfast.

"What time is it?" He asked quickly before Ford could get another mouthful into him. Ford bounced on his feet, his legs were starting to give out after crouching for so long,

"About three in the morning." He said. Arthur started; that meant it was exactly twenty-four hours since he had woken up in Zaphod's bedroom. Twenty-four hours in which he had had two lots of utterly mind-blowing sex with two different people ('One of whom is quite possibly the love of your life', chimed in a part of his brain he would have liked to have shot at dawn); both men, which was a first; both of a different species to him, which was a first; one in a cleaning cupboard, which was a first; followed by the consumption of the strongest drink he had ever had...which was a first of sorts; and followed by what had to rate as the most debilitating and unpleasant hangover he had ever had, and more importantly, which he had had in public. Another couple of joyous novelties there. Oh yes, and he was suffering from very bad deja vu involving a feeling of being interrupted and insulted, and he was still missing a large portion of his memory from the night before. What a day. It probably rated alongside the day his planet had been blown up, in many ways. Except that this time there was at least an upside. It related largely to the fact that Ford had picked up the fork and was absently shovelling egg into his own mouth in a way that made Arthur's nipples decide to stand up and be counted. He coughed slightly, and Ford grinned sheepishly, making the nipples send out a message asking if anyone wanted to join them.

Ford turned the fork, half way to his mouth, and aimed it straight at Arthur's lips without a pause. It stopped, quivering, just by the mouth whose associated eyes were not paying attention.

"Open up then." Said Ford, and Arthur blinked and complied. 'Fork...Ford...Fork...Food...Ford' alliterated Arthur's mind for no good reason; and the knowledge that here they were, at three in the morning, sharing cutlery like it was the most normal thing in the world, made one of the recipients of the nipples' message shake itself and consider getting up. He swallowed the egg and watched as Ford scraped the plate clean and ate the last forkful himself.

'There is a reason I'm meant to be angry with him. I'm sure there is." Thought Arthur as he watched Ford chewing. The drummer seemed to have finally packed up and left, and when he moved his head experimentally from side to side, bits of his brain no longer seemed loose and prone to flopping about inside. Ford grabbed the nearest chair and hauled himself onto it, looking across at Arthur,

"Arthur, your lip's bleeding." He said. Arthur wiped it again with more control than last time. He looked at the smear of blood down the side of his index finger and sighed, before licking it off and wiping the finger on his dressing gown. Ford was watching him, his head in his hand, the plate in front of him looking less appealing by the second. He pushed it away and said,

"Arthur, you know..." He didn't get to finish because Zaphod came into the galley carrying a very large drink in a ridiculous cocktail glass and wearing double-necked _Heart of Gold_ pyjamas in a hideous orange with gold piping . Arthur closed his eyes. Dealing with Zaphod alone would be bad enough right now, without the nauseating colour-scheme to go with him.

"I thought you'd gone to bed." Said Ford warily, looking as if he thought that Zaphod's reappearance could bode him no good.

"So did I, but then I had to get up and pour myself a drink, and Trillian's always saying I shouldn't drink alone, so I came to find some company." He pulled up a chair and sat down holding his drink carefully level. Two large cocktail umbrellas and a stick that seemed to be impaling a miniature zoo rattled dangerously in the purple glass.

"What are you drinking?" Asked Ford, turning his back on Arthur and squinting at the pinkish liquid.

"Arcturan Mega-gin, straight...with ice and Santraginean sea water...a couple of lesser Tolendian pigs...and a Ravelian sea goat. I'm out of the old Janx Spirit, Ford." (Ford's face assumed a temporarily sympathetic expression.) "Do you know what that can do to a guy? If only you and monkey-man had left some of that stuff, I could be having a good time right now."

"We did." Said Ford, looking around. "I couldn't make it back to the bottle once I was on the floor, so it should still have been on the table. Didn't you take it?"

"No. I was too upset. I was _saving_ that, baby."

"Okay, so Trillian or Marvin must have it. They're hardly likely to have drunk the stuff. Why not go and look for it?"

"Not, while I have a drink in my hand. I'll go later."

"It's good stuff Zaph. Better than that cordial you've got there. I bet Trillian's got it. Why not go to her cabin and ask? She won't be asleep yet – she only just went."

"Trying to get rid of me?" Asked Zaphod, perceptively, eyebrows raised even further than usual into his hairline on the head that wasn't, at the moment, playing nosy with the small-crunchy-vertebrates-on-a-stick in the cocktail glass. Ford sat back in his chair, arms folded, and gazed steadily at him.

"Only if you're going to leave that drink here." Zaphod laughed mirthlessly,

"You'd be lucky, baby. I _know_," he leant forward and waggled a long finger at Ford, "that you want to be alone with the monkey. I _also_ know that you don't want me to know that. I _also_ know that now that you know that I know that you don't want me to know; you're about to deny all charges. Just so you know. Don't bother. As if I care anyway." He snatched the drink away from his other head and took a large mouthful in a way that suggested that, for whatever reason, he did care. Though naturally he would never let such an uncool thing be known publicly.

Ford watched him for a few moments, as the level in the glass went rapidly down. His eyes narrowed a little as Zaphod made a spectacularly nonchalant show of dragging a badly speared Tolendian pig, still squealing furiously, off the cocktail stick with his teeth, and crunching it with obvious ambivalence.

"You want to have Arthur again, don't you?" Asked Ford accusingly. His brow was down so far over his eyes that he had to tilt his head back to see Zaphod's reaction. Which was a very, very good impression of a bemused, innocent man. Or two. Except that his other head wasn't listening, but chasing the sea goat up and down the cocktail stick with its tongue.

"Uh, say what Ford?" Ford closed his eyes. When he opened them again, Zaphod was still looking perfectly baffled. In fact, Ford thought, it was actually a pretty good impression of Arthur's normal working expression. Now that _had_ to be significant.

"You _fancy_ him." Ford said in wonderment, a slight smile covering up his nervousness at taunting his semi-cousin in this way. At the end of the table, Arthur looked in bewilderment at the pair of them facing each other across the plasticised surface.

"Eh, I don't think so. If you're going to start insulting me, then I shan't leave." Ford nodded; Arthur's head turned to look at Zaphod, as Ford said,

"You don't want to leave me alone with him do you?" Arthur's head snapped back to Ford.

"I don't want you and the Earthman doing the wild thing in any more of the store rooms and general living areas of my ship. That robot's miserable enough without you making him clear up after you all the time." Zaphod replied, making Arthur's head turn once more, his eyes wide and staring,

"You don't give a damn about what we do in your rooms." (Arthur's head whizzed back.) "You could just turn the robot off if it bothered you that much. You don't want to think I'm getting something out of Arthur when you're not, and you know you missed a trick when you let him go earlier, and you're still sore about it because, whether he understood what he was doing or not, he gave you the best zarking orgasm you've ever had in your life, and that's saying something, and you don't reckon you'll ever experience it again unless it's with him, because it just won't feel right." Ford sat back, looking pleased with himself, if ever so slightly terrified underneath. Zaphod smiled innocently,

"What?!" He asked, laughing slightly. Arthur pointed his nose Zaphod-wards.

"I'm right, aren't I?" said Ford as the nose swung to port again,

"So, what?" (Back with the head.) "I'm meant to be eager to hop back in the sack with the monkey just because he had a lucky break? So if I did, what would it prove? That I'm not prejudiced against other life-forms provided they know some class moves? Hell, that sounds like a pretty hoopy outlook to me. At least I'm not just lusting after one deadly boring specimen of a wretchedly primitive life-form" ('Oh, really?!' said Arthur's brain for the second time that day) "and hoping I can drag him up to my level some day so that I won't have to try to fit in with his bizarre ideas about monogamy and love and Zarquon knows what." Ford spoke and Arthur's neck gave a warning crack as he swung his head back round on it,

"At least I can adapt to new ideas, at least I made the most of my time on that lousy planet; a very long time, especially given that a certain two-headed adventurer could easily have got me out of there earlier if he could have been bothered. If you want Arthur, you're going to have to work a bit harder than this. I worked bloody hard to get him and he owes me at least one, and I'm annoyed enough that you got to him before I did. If you think I'm going to just hand him over, you..." Head: Right.

"You're on my ship, baby. Want to stay for the ride, or would you like another quick trip into space without a suit?" Head: Left.

"You wouldn't have the guts to do that. Besides, you'd miss me eventually, when Trillian leaves you for being an insufferable egomaniac," Head: Right.

"I am perfectly capable of getting myself another girl, thank-you very much. As to having the guts to throw you out, try me." Head: Left.

"I would, if I didn't think you'd lock me in the airlock for three days while you did what you wanted with Arthur." Head: Right.

"You know you're beginning to sound like the monkey. You needn't think bribing me with kisses will work. You know me better than that. I assure you that if I _were_ to want him, I could." Head: Left - desperately concerned,

"You'd have to drag him out from under me first..." Arthur coughed politely; three heads turned to look at him in surprise. It was clear that they'd forgotten he was actually there.

"Erm..." Started Arthur, "I'm sorry, but, are you _actually_ fighting over me?" He looked at them quizzically, head tilted slightly to one side.

"Arthur," said Ford, "Keep out of this."

"Oh come on Ford," Zaphod whined, ignoring Arthur, "It's not like there's going to be a problem over who gives him the better deal in bed. I mean, 'best ba..."

"Actually," Arthur butted in, "I wouldn't usually discuss something like this, but I feel it's important. Zaphod, you may well be staggeringly brilliant, and really I won't deny you were the best all round experience I have ever...experienced" He staggered on, trying not to lose the thread over his headache-diminished vocabulary, "Nonetheless, I have to say that Ford gave me without question the best o..." Ford slammed the palm of his hand over Arthur's mouth.

"Arthur's still not recovered from that drink yet. Zaphod, this is pointless. You don't know humans like I do. I mean, they have _principles,_ man. If Arthur doesn't want to, he won't."

"He did last time..." Zaphod smiled and crunched seductively on a semi-molten ice-cube. Arthur looked curiously at Ford – why had he stopped him? He stood up; the drummer popped back to see if he'd left his coat behind and clanged a full tom case into the door frame. Arthur clutched his head until he'd gone again, then spoke,

"Well, you can discuss this amongst yourselves. I'm pretty sure It's something I don't want to listen to. I would, however, like to make it clear that anything you have in mind can jolly well wait at least another 24 hours until what's left of my head has regrouped, and until certain other bits of me feel less like they've been assaulted with Mediaeval torture equipment. Good night." He gathered his dressing gown about him, tried to set his face into an expression that said, 'I meant what I said – don't mess with me'; actually managed an expression that said, 'terribly sorry to have put you to all this trouble, but I'm not feeling awfully well and I'm a little disturbed by what I just heard, and if you did want to pop your head round the door later, I wouldn't actually mind all that much as long as you're quiet about it', and stalked with long-legged strides out of the room.

Ford looked at Zaphod,

"Going to find that bottle?" He asked hopefully.

"Yeah. Gonna join me?" Ford deliberated for not-a-very-long-time, then nodded.

"Why not?" They rose and headed, arms in arm, down the corridor to Trillian's room.

* * *

_Will Zaphod and Ford find the bottle? Will Arthur get the good night's sleep he so richly deserves? Will he be so blasé about things in the morning? Will Ford and Zaphod reach an equable compromise? Will Ford's bribery win the day, or will Zaphod get bored with the whole thing and just go for what he wants as usual? Reviews make me happy :-D_


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: Thank-you so much for the lovely reviews! I'm afraid this chapter is also rather unfair to Arthur, it's just not been his day, and there's nothing I could do about it without severe continuity problems. I promise I'll give him a better time in Chapter 14 _;-D**  
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**Chapter 13 - An explanation of how to top a really bad day  
**

Arthur clunked his way down the corridor. Somehow, his recovering brain had not yet passed on many messages from the lower part of his body, really having been too concerned with the top and middle sections. However, as he turned into his room, he became aware that walking was more of a problem than normal and was making a lot more noise. He concentrated hard and finally worked out what it was. It was the mop bucket. Getting to the kitchen, drinking, falling down in a stupor, waking up, going to sleep again, waking up, getting as far as the table, eating, listening and marching out of the room: all these things he had somehow accomplished, blissfully unaware of the lump of plastic attached to his lower leg. And no-one had said a word about it. He wasn't sure whether this was a good thing or a bad thing, but he wasn't going to waste any more time thinking about it.

Arthur sat down on the edge of his bed and leant forwards. He grasped the bucket firmly by the sides and pulled. It didn't budge. He wiggled his toes. It still didn't move, though his toes weren't jammed against anything. He pulled his other leg up and braced it against the top of the bucket and pushed. His trapped leg complained, but the bucket stayed fixed. He looked down. Logically there had to be a reason why the bucket wasn't moving. Then he saw it: Inside the bucket, the plastic grill that drained the mop was broken and jagged. The hem of his pyjama bottoms had wrapped itself round one of the projecting spears of plastic and was so tight around his ankle that he couldn't even pull his foot out of the leg. Balancing carefully on the edge of the bed, Arthur bent down and slipped his hand into the bucket to try to free the offending bit of plastic. It was a very small bucket and there wasn't much room for manoeuvre, but he could just get his fingers round to the end. If he could only pull back a little now, it would unhook...

...but it wouldn't unhook. Largely because he couldn't pull back. The broken plastic was acting like a barb, and his thrusting motion into the bucket had snared the cuff of his dressing gown on a particularly sharp bit, straight through, from side to side, right next to his wrist. Pulling back on it just made it tighter and he felt the pulse sing in his wrist as he tried to free his hand.

"Great." Said Arthur, in the voice of one who is certainly not happy with the situation, but who has been through this sort of thing often enough to know that making a fuss about it won't actually get you anywhere. (As opposed to other, less matter-based problems, where sheer mindless panic is the only proper reaction)

With his left foot and his right hand swallowed up in the bright red junior mop bucket, movement was going to be an interesting test of willpower. Arthur slowly pushed his bottom up off the bed, and gripping his ankle to stop himself pulling the gown-sleeve any tighter, he swung that leg forward. The bucket landed with a 'thunk', and Arthur overbalanced. By throwing his other leg forward, he was able to right himself, his left arm windmilling furiously. He looked up, craning his neck to see where he was in relation to the door. If his calculations were correct, if he went forward six steps in this direction, he should come to the wall, against which he could balance while he edged sideways to the doorway. As it turned out, not entirely unexpectedly, his calculations were wrong. On the fourth step, his eyes on the floor, his head came into sharp contact with the wall. Surprise knocked him off balance and he fell sideways, managing to break his fall with his free arm, but still ending up on his side.

Getting up was tricky. He had fallen away from the wall, so he had no support but himself. 'It is amazing,' he thought to himself, 'how much you need arms to get up.' He almost added 'At my age,' but fought the fogeyish impulse and redoubled his efforts. A few minutes of not-unimpressive gymnastics later, Arthur was once more in an upright position, only now the corner of his dressing-gown skirt had somehow become trapped in with the foot and the hand. Vague panic circled around him as it occurred to him that he was slowly being eaten alive by a piece of damaged (and therefore probably malevolent) cleaning equipment.

Arthur shuffled, Quasimodo-like, out of his room and down the corridor to the galley. Exhausted and aching, he tumbled across the threshold, and it was with a shock of resigned horror that he realised the room was empty: Ford and Zaphod were gone. Part of him wanted to let himself fall over there and hope it would all go away if he just went to sleep, but most of him realised that he had just spent the best part of a day asleep on this very floor, and not only would doing the same again look like he had run out of ideas, but, given his current position, he would probably be utterly unable to move when he woke up.

A slightly mischievous urge took him, and settling his weight onto the trapped foot, he hooshed himself around with his other foot. The plastic spun perfectly on the smooth galley floor, and he whizzed round a couple of times in his doubled-over position, feeling rather like an ice skater in a low spin, before a wobble nearly threw him to the floor and his sensible side reasserted itself. Stopping the spin facing the doorway, Arthur resumed his clumsy stagger down the corridor towards the bridge.

There was no-one on the bridge. Arthur sighed; he should have known. Where would Ford and Zaphod be? An idea flickered through his head, but he banished it swiftly. 'Think, Arthur." He thought to himself. Then it clicked. They had been wondering about The Drink. Undoubtedly, given what he knew of those impossible men, they had gone looking for it. And the first place they would look would be Trillian's cabin – Ford had said so himself.

Another spin on the bucket turned Arthur back round to the door, and five painful minutes later, Arthur stood outside Trillian's room. The door didn't open.

"Excuse me." Said Arthur, "Can I come in?" The door made a little sound like it had jumped, startled,

"I'm so sorry, my sensors did not register you down there." It said cheerfully. Arthur grunted as it opened,

"Have a nice day!" Said the door.

The room was brightly lit. Trillian was sitting in bed, the covers drawn up to her waist, her arms folded, a look of uncertainty on her face. Ford and Zaphod were perched either side of her on the bed, and Zaphod had got the infamous bottle in his hands and was sniffing at the top. They all turned as Arthur came noisily into the room. Zaphod's foreheads creased as if he couldn't quite work out what Arthur was doing, Trillian hastily pulled the sheets up to cover her head, from which muffled sniggers soon emerged, and Ford looked quizzically at him, obviously unsure whether to take the Zaphod or the Trillian route,

"How did you end up like that?" He asked eventually, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice,

"I decided to see if I could get my whole body inside and it went wrong." said Arthur. Ford and Zaphod looked at each other as if to say – he's finally lost it completely. Then Ford's brain slowly clicked into place and he remembered something of his researches on Earth. 'Ah, sarcasm...?" his brain asked. He decided it was, and tried to explain to Zaphod, who looked ready to edge round the Earthman and get The Drink safely out of the room before the madness worsened.

"He doesn't mean it. He means...he was trying to get out of it and got stuck...I think." He chanced a glance at Arthur, who nodded.

"Then why'd he say that?" Asked Zaphod

"I dunno...it's an Earth thing." He turned back to Arthur, "Do you want some help?"

"Thank You." Said Arthur, without amusement. His back was really hurting now, and his neck and legs were complaining at their harsh treatment. Ford hauled himself off the bed, his eyes tracing a lingering path over Trillian's cleavage – freshly re-revealed as she emerged to watch the procedure. Zaphod noticed and gave an unreadable twitch of his facial muscles, before leaning back next to her and clutching the bottle more tightly while his third hand wandered off onto Trillian's shoulder and started to stroke little patterns on the exposed flesh in a proprietorial manner.

"What's keeping you in there?" Ford asked. Arthur looked up at him as best he could and explained using the voice he would have used back on Earth to explain a peculiar 'thunking' sound from his car's steering rack to a garage mechanic,

"My pyjamas and my dressing gown are caught in the plastic bits at the top. When I try to pull away, it just wraps it tighter round my wrist and ankle."

"Let's have a look," said Ford, "Sit down."

"I can't," said Arthur, "I have to either stand or fall over, there is no in-between." Ford rolled his eyes,

"Don't be difficult, Arthur, just get your weight off it and hold it up so that I can see."

Since Ford was obviously not going to help him reach this position, Arthur reluctantly threw his weight to one side until he toppled over. Lying on the floor, he looked at Ford and raised his bucketed hand and food painfully into the air. Ford sat down, legs crossed, and pulled the bucket onto his lap. He looked at Arthur and let go of the bucket. He took off his jacket, undid his shirt cuff, and rolled up his sleeve. Then he slid his arm down beside Arthur's, feeling for the bits of plastic caught in the rough wool fabric of the sleeve.

"It's gone right through." He announced a few seconds later.

"I know." Said Arthur tetchily.

"We could break the bucket." Said Ford.

"How? It's bloody tough, I tried to crack the sides. I'm not having you swinging a hammer at me." Said Arthur with feeling.

"Marvin could probably do it." Ford mused.

"I'm not having that robot waving anything sharp around near my skin. I'm sorry, but I just don't trust a walking computer in that way."

"Fair enough." Ford replied, slipping his hand back out of the bucket, scratching at the skin on his forearm and chewing his lip as he thought.

"Well, I can't do it from that angle. Maybe if I got a knife and just cut your gown?" Arthur's mouth shot open, as his eyes widened unnaturally. He felt his whole body tense as if someone had gripped him tightly,

"You'll do no such thing. Look, I know it's probably not the best outfit known to the galaxy, but it is the only clothing I've got, and I don't want to have to walk round in a dressing gown with a great fraying hole in it. Nor do I relish the thought of you wielding a knife in such a confined space."

"Okay, okay." Said Ford in a placatory tone, "I'll see if I can get a better grip from another angle. He put his head to one side and considered the problem. If he could get his hand directly down the side of Arthur's leg, he'd be able to get a better grip on the fabric, maybe enough to pull it off.

Sitting himself down on Arthur's left side, he hoiked Arthur's trapped leg up onto his shoulder at the knee, and held the bucket between his own knees in his lap. By digging his elbow back into Arthur's armpit, he could now get the angle for an easy entry into the bucket, between Arthur's arm and leg.

Because his hand was trapped up with his foot, Arthur was compelled to remain in a sort of semi sit-up, his stomach muscles doing all the work to stop himself leaning back on his arm, because every time he did, he got an irritable, 'Arthur, don't pull.' from Ford.

Inside the bucket it was hot. Three limbs on a warm spaceship, the muscles all working hard and all tangled up with a length of insulating wool fabric, give off a lot of heat, and as Ford's hand rubbed past Arthur's, he could feel them slide, both slick with sweat. Arthur groaned inwardly to himself: now was not a time for inappropriate thoughts; not when his groin was firmly planted against the base of Ford's spine... He groaned silently again and thought hurriedly about tulips.

Five excruciating minutes later, the pain in his contorted body being somewhat offset by the concentration he was having to apply to keeping thinking about Spring-flowering bulbs, Arthur felt his cuff slide off the plastic, and Ford wrap it more tightly around his wrist and help him remove his hand from the bucket. He let go, and Arthur fell back on the floor, rubbing his wrist and stretching his back as far as he could. The hem of the skirts was released easily, and Arthur wriggled happily, all the kinks in his spine hurting in a getting-better sort of way now.

Ford could now get both his hands into the bucket, and his fingers easily worked the pyjamas off the spikes of red plastic. He did not, however, let Arthur remove his foot at once, but kept it in there, hidden from the gazes of Zaphod and Trillian, while he stroked his thumb around Arthur's ankle, and brushed the sole of his foot until Arthur muttered,

"Tu-u-ulips," with a half sob, and Ford glanced back at him, smirked, and let the foot out, saying cheerfully,

"There you go, Arthur." He laid Arthur's leg down on the floor next to him, and got up, stretching himself, while Arthur arched his back, stretched his feet, and yelled as a spasm of cramp shot up his leg.

"Thank-you." he said at last.

He got up and looked at the bed, where Trillian was once more ensconced between Zaphod and Ford. She looked slightly...not uncomfortable, that was too strong a word, but almost as if she knew she shouldn't be letting them do this, but that she could because...well, because Earth rules just didn't apply here. To Arthur, however, they did apply. He stole a glance at the expanse of cleavage available to view, and looked sheepishly back at his feet.

"I'll, uh... I'll be off then." He said, and walked out of the door. Then he walked back, collected his bucket, and left again.

Zaphod looked at Ford, clutching the bottle to his chest, and Trillian to his side,

"Don't you want to go to bed?" He asked, a slight warning tone in his voice. Trillian hitched up her eyebrows and closed her eyes. This wasn't a conversation she thought she should get involved with. Ford shook his head,

"Not while that bottle is out on its own. I don't know what might happen to it."

"Well, given your total lack of control last time it was left with you, you needn't think that's going to happen again." Zaphod muttered. Trillian opened her eyes,

"I should never have let you have the bottle. Look, you're not actually going to drink that tonight are you? It is past four in the morning. I think you'd be better off leaving it. You'll enjoy it more if you have to wait for it." She looked steadily at Zaphod, who watched her with his left head, while the right kept its eyes fixed on Ford, trying to stare him out of the room,

"I thought you didn't want to let me loose around Arthur?" Ford said. Zaphod snorted,

"Hey, I've got a girl in my arms and a bottle in my hand. I think I'm in a much more hoopy position that you right now. Go find the monkey if you want." Trillian swung her legs out from under the covers, climbed over Zaphod and stood next to him by the bed. She held out her hand,

"Give me the bottle Zaphod." Zaphod looked at her in surprise,

"Hey...baby...?" He said, unsure of what she was actually doing.

"I'm not going to sit here and listen to you and Ford argue over me and Arthur and that bottle. So firstly, I'm going to remove one of the problems..." taking Zaphod by surprise, she managed to prise the bottle away fro him and got it into the voice-print locker by the bed before he could stop her, "and secondly, I'm going to ask at least one of you to leave, and the other not to stay unless he can get it into is heads that I am just not available at this time of night, and can keep his roving hands to himself for a couple of hours. If neither of those last two is achievable, I'm going to go and find another room for the night. Perhaps I'll go and spend it with Arthur, shall I?" She said these last words in such a menacing tone, that Ford and Zaphod both shrank back into the bed. Ford got the hint first, and headed towards the door,

"Well, I guess I'll have to wait till morning for that drink. Um, best of luck mate." He said to Zaphod, "'Night Trillian." He said to Trillian's breasts, and walked straight out of the door.

Instinct took Ford straight down the corridor to Arthur's room. The door opened: Arthur hadn't locked it, and Ford peered inside. Arthur was stretched out on top of his covers, as if he'd fallen asleep before he could actually get into bed properly. Ford tiptoed over to him. He knew that face: it was the face of a man who has been up half the night getting his drunken friend settled on the couch and consequently needs to sleep for longer in the morning than the drunk man does. Ford had seen it once or twice...well, three or four...okay, a _lot_ of times before. He reached out his hand on an impulse, and his fingertips brushed Arthur's cheek. Arthur batted at the hand with his own, muttering to himself in his light sleep. Ford withdrew the hand and sighed. Being sober wasn't helping to control a certain background horniness that was currently assailing him whenever Arthur was around, but it was, at least, allowing him to remember the sort of reaction he might expect if he woke Arthur now and tried to persuade him to do anything. It simply wouldn't be worth the effort. Tomorrow. Tomorrow would be okay. Tomorrow night he would see off Zaphod and find out a bit more about Arthur's sexual skills. Tonight...well, he could probably do with the sleep anyway.

Ford went back to his own room, fell into bed, and within minutes was dreaming about girl's chests and large glasses of horrifically strong alcohol. He smiled a smile that made Arthur, in his own cabin, frown and turn fretfully in his sleep as he dreamt of ravening monsters chasing him and swallowing him whole.

In a third cabin, Zaphod bowed to a will almost as strong as his own, and dozed in his clothes while Trillian let the one hand on her inner thigh pass without comment, and slept.

* * *

_Will Trillian ever let Zaphod have the bottle back? Will he share it with Ford when he gets it? Or is he too annoyed about the Trillian based retaliation_? _And most importantly, will Ford and Arthur get around to doing what they were meant to do three chapters ago? I'll happily deprive myself of sleep to answer these important questions, if only I get reviews_ :-) 


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: This last chapter sprawls a bit, largely because Arthur was completely uncooperative for the whole thing. All I wanted was for him to show a little initiative, be a tiny little bit dominant. I had soundbites of him being just that, playing over and over in my head, but when it came to it I ended up rewriting most of this about five times because he just refused to do it. Ford wasn't much help, he kept pulling characterisation on me, and I just hope that what's come out at the end is vaguely coherent. If it isn't, blame them, not me! Thankyou as always for the lovely reviews, without them I might have had a terminal falling out with Arthur half way through. Happily we are now back on speaking terms and although this surprised me by turning out to be the last chapter, I seem to have a healthy family of young and vigorous plotbunnies living in my head so as soon as they've matured a bit I'll be setting some of them free ;-D_

_Obviously, the epilogue is not my own. It belongs entirely to other, more fortunate beings. It is there in two versions because you can't be too careful and because although the book version sits better at the end of a fic, Arthur's last line of the extract is my happy place when people get on my nerves at work, so obviously I had to include it!_

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**Chapter 14 - In which Arthur takes the initiative...sort of**

Arthur awoke at noon. His brain was whirling, the events of the last two days flashing up in random fragments at the front of his mind. He sat up and planted his feet firmly on the floor, rested his elbows on his knees and tried to think. A few seconds later he decided that this had been a bad plan. The fragments were resolving themselves far too fast into a coherent narrative of moral disaster after moral disaster. What was worse, bits of it were still missing. Nevertheless, even with all the missing bits, a series of undeniably real and distinctly unwanted memories were now available to him. Sleeping with Zaphod, sleeping with Ford, getting horribly drunk on next to nothing, a day spent lying in agony on the galley floor with people watching him, and a final trip around the ship looking like a deformed pot plant – a predicament from which he had had to be rescued in the sniggering presence of Trillian, and which had probably put the last nail in the coffin of his hopes of ever becoming more friendly with her in _that_ sort of way.

The situation required careful consideration. He locked the door. A shower and a shave only increased the number of things he could remember, and minutes turned into hours as Arthur contemplated his options, and his desire to curl up and die grew and grew.

Eventually, Arthur got out his copy of _The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_ and thought for a second, his fingers hovering over the input. Finally he decided, and an entry flicked up on the screen. This is what it said:

_What to do when you have had sex with a friend you never thought about in that way before and now can't stop thinking about in that way, even though you definitely don't want to: Don't panic! This is no cause for alarm. You are obviously meant for each other and will have a seriously hoopy time if you just relax and go with it._

Arthur frowned and tried again:

_What to do when you have had all your moral views overturned in one night and don't want to admit it, even to yourself: Unless you have access to some heavy-duty time-travelling gear with a personal insensitivity nullifier to allow you to include your own self in the retrogradations, you're probably just going to have to live with it. Take some time to check on your new moral standpoint and you'll probably find it isn't that bad after all. If it is that bad, you may be wise to alter your perspective instead (See articles: Good stiff drink, a; Drugs, mind-altering; and Suspended animation – a way to forget)._

Arthur sighed and scratched his head. His fingers moved once more, the guide loaded for slightly longer than usual and he read:

_What to do when nothing makes sense any more and you daren't go anywhere on your ship where you might meet people for fear of the embarrassment you are bound to suffer as a consequence of actions or events of the last few days which, due to a variety of circumstances, you have not yet had to face up to: Welcome to the universe. Now may be a good time to start panicking as there is nothing else you can usefully do. You may as well go out there and get it over with. (See footnote)_

Arthur selected the footnote and the guide helpfully announced that this was a local, private footnote, uploaded four hours previously. Arthur's head tilted in confusion, then read:

_That means you, Arthur. I knew you'd find this. Zaphod's off with Trillian somewhere, so you can zarking well come and keep me company. Now._

Arthur jumped, he'd forgotten Ford's links to the _Guide_. Clearly he wasn't averse to hacking into Arthur's copy when it suited him. Even so, being so open about the fact that he knew exactly what Arthur was thinking was a bit much. He put away the _Guide_ and got up. Somehow, he knew Ford meant it. Not that he couldn't have ignored him, but it would probably be easier in the long run to face him now than later. He got up, unlocked the door and stepped into the corridor.

"Have a nice day!" Said the door.

"It can't be worse than yesterday." Returned Arthur, morosely, and he stomped towards the bridge.

* * *

Ford was sitting watching the sub-ether network news, where the reader was reporting massive drops in galactic share prices for freelance Vogon Constructor Fleets floated in the last three financial years. Ford wasn't actually listening, Arthur realised, but was tallying off the number of sheets of paper the newsreader was getting through as he read, his hand moving fast across the page. It was clear that he was deeply bored. 

As Arthur came over to him, Ford looked round and shuffled up on the upholstered bench that had appeared from somewhere, so that there was room for Arthur to sit down.

"At last!" He said, undisguised irritation in his voice.

"I only just got your note." Said Arthur. Then he added, "How many entries did you put that footnote in?"

"Just the one." Grinned Ford, "Sit down." His hand was still flying across the page. Arthur sat next to him and Ford swung his legs away from him and sat leaning against Arthur's right arm.

The Newsreader finished the report, and as the screen changed to the station logo, Ford flicked it off and threw the tally sheet away without looking at it. He tipped back his head and looked at Arthur through his hair. The look on Arthur's face seemed to tell him that all would not be plain sailing. He pushed himself up off Arthur's arm, and swivelled back round to face him.

"What's the matter?" He asked, "You look better than you did yesterday." Arthur nodded – this was probably true. Certainly his head was feeling like it used to again, and the rest of his body felt much less alien.

"If I could just forget the last two days ever happened, I'd be fine." He said. Ford frowned slightly,

"All of it?" He asked. Arthur didn't answer. He couldn't. Yes: he'd rather none of it had ever happened, but now that it had...the feelings at the time had been...amazing. They just weren't things he wanted to have done in order to feel those sensations. Especially now that Ford's knees were digging into his thigh, and instead of the dull pain he should have been feeling, he was receiving little jolts of desire that threatened to overrun his motor centres and make him grab Ford then and there and do to him everything he could ever think of to do. Ford was looking at him with a curiosity that was blooming into understanding. He got up, his decision to be nice to Arthur causing an endearing softness to permeate his facial expression.

"How about this for an idea?" Ford said when Arthur failed to get up with him, "We go get something to eat and then you come to my cabin and we see if we can't make you feel better?" Arthur looked up at him warily,

"What did you have in mind?"

"Sausages?" Asked Ford, eyes wide.

"No, not the eating; I meant the other bit." Ford scratched his head, then looked at the fingernails that had done the scratching,

"Well, you do owe me..." He looked back at Arthur, who sighed,

"Sausages it is then." and got up and headed for the galley.

Ford followed Arthur and spent a time trying to convince the Nutri-Matic to produce something more closely resembling sausages than anything that Arthur had managed with it. At last he sat at the table and pushed Arthur's greyish tubes of not-quite-sausage out of the way with a plate of his more fragrant offering. Arthur nodded his thanks and started to eat, carefully avoiding Ford's gaze, which seemed to burn into his forehead.

This, thought Arthur, is going to be difficult. Either I can break my promise and run and hide, thereby bringing down the full weight of my mother's ethereal wrath upon my head...or I can face up to my responsibilities and have a really good time. Except that you can't just go from eating sausages with someone in silence, to the fun, romping around on the bed bit, without out a lot of awkward moments in between. Awkward moments he was sure he wouldn't cope with very well.

It was too late. The last bit of sausage had gone from his plate, and Ford was up, out of his seat and standing by the door.

"Come on Arthur." He said, as if he knew that Arthur would follow him. Against such staggering confidence, Arthur had no defence. He stacked his plate with Ford's and moved them both a little nearer to the Nutri-Matic, as if that would somehow help with getting them cleared away, and followed Ford.

* * *

Arthur had never been to Ford's cabin before. It was superficially tidy, in the way that is only achievable when you simply don't have enough personal possessions to make a place untidy. The contents of his satchel were obviously only in their confines because, as a good hitchhiker, Ford was ready to up and leave at the shortest notice. His towel poked out of the top of the bag in a reassuring manner. Only the very unmade bed and the guest towels lying in the corner of the room gave clues to the fact that, given the chance, Ford Prefect might not actually be the tidiest being in the galaxy. 

Arthur geared himself up for awkward moment number one. This was the one where they would stand and look at each other and say something like: 'So...' or, 'Well, here we are...', then trail off into silence, while finding interesting things to look at on the floor and ceiling. This was also the one where Ford might, possibly, take a step towards Arthur, give him a gentle kiss on the lips and say, 'You do owe me, Arthur." before stepping back, and letting Arthur's natural embarrassment burgeon into a ravening monster that would prevent him from doing anything whatsoever that might show initiative.

Instead, Ford locked the door and came straight up in front of Arthur, pressing his full body length against him, steadying himself by gripping the lapels of Arthur's dressing gown.

"I have been very, very bored today." he said. "I almost went to find Marvin to talk to. Now that should give you an idea of just how bored I was." Arthur looked down at him, expecting to push him away and back off with unthinkable embarrassment, but as his eyes locked with Ford's the world melted. Ford's eyes flashed pure desire.

Arthur could feel his natural self-consciousness struggling through his temporary distractedness. He could either give in to it and resign himself to Ford having his way with him again, or possibly to Ford giving up in despair and letting him go (which no longer seemed that attractive to Arthur), or he could keep himself so busy that he wouldn't have time to be self-conscious, and the impulse to run would have to fend for itself without him. Given the second possibility offered by the first option, and without really thinking it through at all, Arthur decided on the second course of action. His hands moved to Ford's shoulders, then up into his hair, and he ran them again and again through the soft curls, still staring into Ford's unblinking eyes, frightened to kiss him in case he couldn't stop, because it felt like he would explode if he didn't do it, or devour Ford whole if he did. Delaying tactics were required, so he spoke, ignoring the protests from the part of his brain that just wanted to get on with this.

"Ford, why did you stop me telling Zaphod what a good time you gave me last..."

"Because it's not worth the bother of making Zaphod feel like someone might be better than him. It just makes him want to prove himself, and because he's usually right, it's nauseatingly predictable. I just couldn't face it. I also know that he would be less inclined to be nice to me if he thought I was going around besting him, and I happen to like having Zaphod on my side. It can be very convenient. Or rather, it can be very inconvenient to have him against you." Arthur looked slightly confused.

"So why were you making eyes at Trillian when he was looking then? Surely that annoys him?"

"Well firstly, it doesn't annoy him that much, since he's convinced no-one would ever be stupid enough to leave Zaphod Beeblebrox; secondly, she's a very nice girl who I wouldn't mind having a shot at if Zaph wasn't keeping an eye on her; and thirdly, he was being very selfish with that drink I discovered, so I thought he deserved it."

"How often have you...with Zaphod?" Ford looked at him,

"Do you really care?" Arthur thought for a moment, eyebrows wiggling in confusion.

"No, I suppose not." He said eventually, though he didn't sound very sure, "But when..."

"Arthur, you're thinking too human. It really doesn't matter. I mean, not in the human sense that it wouldn't matter. I mean, it _really_ doesn't matter."

The parts of Arthur that knew what was good for him triumphed and managed to convince the rest of him to be satisfied at that. He was suddenly aware of his own extra height in comparison to Ford, and the advantage it actually gave him. It made him feel slightly protective of the smaller man, and caused an awful lot of blood to screech to a halt somewhere just under his diaphragm and hold a union meeting about whether to head back to his brain where a lot of work was being done, or go south instead, where a lot of work was shortly to be ordered. The confusion in his upper abdomen seemed to affect the areas around it, and Arthur's lungs felt like they were nudging at his chest, trying to get in on the action. As he ran a hand wonderingly down the side of Ford's face, he found that he was breathing so heavily that swallowing had become a slight technical problem, and it sounded like he'd just run a fast two hundred metres.

Ford laughed slightly, uncertainly, and moved his hands to undo the top button of Arthur's pyjamas, which had reappeared, presumably via Marvin or agencies unknown, in Arthur's cabin the night before. Arthur brought one of his hands back and stopped him,

"No." He said with a gulp, determined to retain the initiative. He got the feeling that if he didn't, Ford's personality would assert itself once more, and he would end up being indebted for two night's work instead of just one. The only problem was, he couldn't think what to do. In theory, this bit should not be a problem, he told himself. This bit he had done with girls, after all, apart from a few superficial physical differences, and rather a lot of psychological differences, the foreplay – the kissing, the nipple-teasing, the skin-playing, the murmured not-words – was much the same. And that was the bit he really wanted to do. This thought hit him like a bomb. It shattered his brain into fragments that span out, crashed into his skull and reassembled themselves vaguely as before, but with enough bodging round the joins to cause him some serious doubts about his sanity. The actual sex bit, in whatever way he went about it, he could take or leave at this moment. That was past his self-knowledge threshold, it was something he just couldn't get his mind to hold steady on; but the other bit – even the thought of it made his whole body behave in a way that, while it was not entirely unpleasant, was alien enough to his normal functioning to make him need to resolve things one way or the other.

'Stop thinking.' said the part of his brain that was in charge of sexual encounters, 'And get on with it before he gives up on you.' A frantic series of messages were sent between parts of Arthur's brain that each thought the other should know what to do in this situation, and eventually he managed to cobble together a temporary solution. It consisted of kissing Ford.

It was just as he would have remembered, had his brain not decided to edit out the juicy details for his own well-being and sanity. A delightful mellowness rushed through him from the warm mingling of tongues and lips. Desperately trying to get closer, he pushed Ford slowly towards where he hoped the bed was and felt the shudder as Ford fought to retain his balance when his calves hit the edge of the bed. The feeling of being much bigger than Ford persisted and was magnified as he held him as near to upright as possible, then carefully let him down to the bed where he felt like he engulfed him, bending over him in his voluminous dressing gown. How could he have felt so powerless yesterday? he wondered, but as he did, the feeling came rushing back – the insecurity and doubt. He spotted it coming and blocked it swiftly with a flick of the tongue, a caress of the hip, a recognition of the hot, irregular breaths tangling with his own as they came out of slightly squashed nostrils.

Arthur opened his eyes and found Ford staring lazily at him, a look of quiet expectation on his face, as if he'd decided to let Arthur have a shot at this without interfering. It was so different from his usual 'let's get on with something' look that he generally wore around Arthur, that it took Arthur a moment to place it. Then he knew: it was the look Ford wore when he had his hands wrapped round a glass of something strongly alcoholic, and a girl had her arms wrapped around him. It was his contented look. Arthur's insides tried to do another little jump, and found that it was impossible to improve on the turmoil already there. He settled for putting his arm further round Ford and making a valiant attempt to get even closer to him. Ford seemed to have worked out Arthur's dilemma for him, he pulled back from the kiss, smiling a pink-edged smile, and said,

"I think you'll find it's the clothes in the way, Arthur." The way he said his name was like a soft purr, and Arthur felt it vibrate through him. Ford was right. There were an awful lot of clothes in the way of what he was trying to do right now. So he changed his tack: It would be a shame to get rid of them all at once just to satisfy his reckless libido. He pulled back and ran his hand up between Ford's blazer and jumper, he felt Ford shuffling slightly beneath his fingers. A twist of the thumb undid the blazer button and he folded it back onto the bed covers.

"I think," he said, looking at the encouraging smirk on Ford's face, "that I could get used to this." Ford grinned his dangerous grin, stretched his arms above his head on the covers, laying himself open to any attack Arthur might feel inclined to make, and said,

"Good."

Arthur's confidence grew. It was obvious to him now that he could do this badly and feel even worse tomorrow morning than he had this morning; or he could do it well and reap unimaginable rewards. A feeling that there was plenty of time washed over him and he rucked the jumper up to Ford's chin, starting to undo the shirt buttons without removing it.

It was comforting to see Ford's chest revealed by the open shirt. Arthur ran his hand down Ford's left side and found that he remembered the exact feel, but this time it was better because he could see it, and, more importantly, he could see the flicker of lost control on Ford's face as his fingers skiffled down his ribs. He grabbed Ford's hands and pulled him up to sitting so that he could haul the bundle of clothes nestling under his chin up over his head and away. Ford obligingly wriggled his arms to help, then let them drop on Arthur's shoulders in the way he always did when he was drunk and needed a hug. It was usually like having two steel girders descend upon your shoulders from a great height, and it always left Arthur with bruises, but today Ford was obviously trying to be careful, because the arms landed, well, perhaps not lightly, but at least without the crashing weight of an Arcturan boa constrictor whose last meal was a bag of ready-mix cement. He plucked at the neck of Arthur's dressing gown, and Arthur let him undo it and shrugged it off. He stopped him at the pyjamas however, and pushed him gently back to the bed. He was racking his brains to try to remember some of the details of what Zaphod had done to him. It was unpleasant to put himself in the debt of the two-headed insult-monger, but he couldn't deny that some of his moves were really rather good. There was a certain way he had trapped Arthur's nipple between his index and middle fingers, leaving his thumb free to graze the top while the fingers applied a painfully wonderful pressure to the sides. Arthur let his right hand wander back into Ford's hair by way of his cheek, while his left hand tried out this particular little gem. Ford arched his back, gasping with pleasure, then his hand shot out and he pulled himself up on Arthur's arm, not letting him stop, but bringing his face so close that Arthur had to concentrate with all his might not to close the gap.

"That's one of Zaphod's." said Ford softly, Arthur nodded, wondering vaguely if it mattered that he'd been rumbled. He decided it didn't, and he gave another little squeeze and rub. Ford took a sharp breath and clung to him, which confirmed Arthur's decision. This time he didn't stop Ford when he started to undo his pyjama buttons. Anticipation was building in him, the lump in his pyjama bottoms was nothing to the steadily growing ball of excitement in his chest. It was nice to be doing something he actually wanted to for a change. He felt the pyjamas slide down and off his arms and then returned those arms to Ford's back.

Shunting Ford further back on the bed and following on his knees, Arthur pulled him closer and kissed him again. This time the barrier was gone, he could get as close as he liked. And he would. His arms were moving behind Ford's back, desperately rubbing themselves up and down his spine. If he had any doubts that Ford might not be so interested in this part of the entertainment, they were dispelled by the crushing grip of Ford's own arms about his own torso: hard little muscles pulling like silk-covered cables across his shoulder blades.

As he pulled Ford's head closer with one hand – a task that was actually physically impossible, but which worked like a dream in the eyes-tight-shut world they currently shared, Arthur let his other hand drift down to Ford's waistband. A wave of uncertainty hit him, and he pulled out of the kiss to check...Ford's eyes had opened when Arthur let him go, and two blue beacons eyed Arthur suggestively, reassuring him. He gazed back at them, wondering at the sensations that travelled through him as he stared. Ford blinked for the first time in an eternity – a languid, lazy blink whose eyelids didn't seem to be in too much of a hurry to open again. When they did, and Arthur was still staring, unmoving, Ford spoke, very softly, but with definite command,

"Arthur, if you don't stop staring at me, and actually do something, I am going to have to take over because I really can't hold on... and then you'll still owe me..." Arthur blinked hard, trying to make up for the fact that Ford's eyelids appeared to be resigned to staying apart for a while,

"I'm not..." He said, then stopped, because he realised what he was about to say, and it was true,

"I'm not doing this because I owe you, I'm doing it because I want to." He said, all in a rush. Something had changed in the last hour or so and Arthur couldn't quite work out what it was. The closest he could get to a solution was that this – the experience of being this close to Ford, of having this licence to do whatever he wanted, of just _being_ with him – mattered. Oh yes, it mattered alright. He had been sitting on a knife edge, the least slip in his determination to be in charge here would have lost him the whole advantage, because he was so used to having his role defined by the fact that the body underneath him was female. Without that helpful piece of information to build his way of working the situation, he was lost, but now he knew what he wanted to do, and he was going to do it. 'Yes, that's it.' His brain said to himself.

Excusing himself from Ford's head, Arthur edged his way down his body to where his trousers were now under considerable strain. It was clear that Ford meant what he said about not being able to hold on. Ford seemed to still be considering Arthur's last remark. He grinned as it sunk in, and Arthur's fingernails dug into his hips as the aftershock of the Smile rolled over him. Ford's hands were on his head, in his hair and on his neck, scuffing the hair back and forth and gently encouraging him in his decided task of getting the trousers open.

The button seemed to be unfeasibly big for the hole. It was inconceivable that this button should be the one that Ford had opened and closed with ease a couple of times a day for goodness knows how long. At any rate, it wasn't co-operating with Arthur's fingers, which seemed to be trembling more violently than they had any right to. After a considerable amount of time, during which he jabbed Ford in the stomach twice and got his skin caught in the twisting fabric three times, Ford made a desperate sort of sound and gave up on his resolution not to interfere. He reached down and tried to brush Arthur's hand away.

Ford had not expected this simple move to be greeted with the reaction he got, but he had not realised that he had come up against a Decision. Arthur grabbed the hand that was trying to help, and scuttled back up Ford's body, so that he could look him right in the eyes.

"No you don't." He said warningly, "I'll do it." He slipped his hand between them again, and managed with superhuman will to undo the button. The zip was easy, and in seconds, Arthur's hand was roaming around Ford's thighs, not bothering to slip the trousers down, or even to try to get inside the underpants which bulged still more dangerously as Arthur's long thin fingers teased at the smooth, smooth flesh of Ford's inner thighs.

Ford was breathing fast now, and it was clear that he was becoming more and more frustrated with Arthur's apparent reluctance to get a move on and satisfy the slowly writhing man under him. He seemed to have become utterly fascinated with Ford's collarbone, and it was as if the hand that now pushed itself deeper between Ford's legs, prodding at the tender skin he kept hidden just below and between his buttocks, was acting of its own volition, and not due to any will of Arthur's.

Ford couldn't take any more. With the benefit of surprise, and the strength of a man frustrated beyond reasonable actions, he twisted his body, flipped Arthur onto his back, and straddled him, panting heavily as his erection bobbed happily in front of him, freed from its confines by his sudden movement. He looked at Arthur with a hint of derangement that Arthur found mind-bogglingly erotic, and pulled at the cord of his pyjama bottoms, opening them easily and throwing himself forward onto Arthur's chest to allow space to push them down Arthur's legs. He had almost achieved this when Arthur shook himself, remembering his earlier resolution, and used his superior mass to roll them back over so that Ford was trapped beneath him again, breathing oddly and looking at Arthur over the top of a pair of imaginary glasses. His hips were rising, desperately trying to rub against Arthur's midsection, but Arthur pulled himself firmly away, pinning Ford to the bed with his hands. He had nearly been caught out that time - well, it wasn't going to happen again.

Holding Ford across the chest with his forearm, Arthur pulled hard on the waistband of Ford's underpants, barely easing them over the invitingly oozing tip of Ford's penis. He hooked the underwear off Ford's legs with his feet and managed to kick and struggle his own off without loosing his grip on the panting Betelguesian who seemed to have lost the power of rational speech and was clutching wildly at he pillows behind him and trying to bite at Arthur's arm in a way that suggested he might have lost sight of the fact that he was meant to be being nice to Arthur. Arthur pulled himself level with Ford's face again. A sheen of sweat was gliding across his face. He looked like someone who had already had one, if not two or three pretty decent orgasms, not someone who had been commendably passively waiting for their first. Arthur couldn't help feeling that he ought to be very proud about this, after all, he seemed to be the one who had caused this ludicrous level of arousal simply by being there. The thought didn't last long however. He was too starkly aware of the effect Ford was having on him. The heaving chest beneath him and the glazed and demanding face inches from his own were making it impossible to rest his groin comfortably on Ford's leg.

He shuffled sideways slightly, and the first contact brought a hopelessly lovable cry from Ford's throat and a whimper from Arthur. He pulled back again, unwilling to let this be over so soon and determined, no matter how much he wanted to join Ford in this, to be the orchestrator, and not to share in it equally. Reaching his hand down, he buried his face in Ford's neck. It was hot and damp and the skin shivered under his lips. His hand closed around Ford, finding even greater heat and a straining hum that turned his fingers to velvet. There was so much he was going to do, so many ways he was going to learn to tease and please...but it was too late. It was enough that he had touched him, and Ford jerked under him, biting at his hair and clutching at his back, shaking him hard with his own power. Then he lay back on Arthur's arm, breathing hurricanes into Arthur's ear, and relaxed,

"Zarquon." He said.

Ford looked at Arthur, a glint of something Arthur wasn't sure about in his eyes. He felt contented – he had done what he had set out to do, he had kept Ford under control and released himself from any perceived obligation, and he had done something amazing to the gorgeous, flushed man currently cutting off the circulation in his right arm. As he wondered at this, a hand wrapped around him, reminding him how hard he was and making him think that maybe it wasn't a bad thing that Ford was looking a little less manic. Ford was, however, looking more like his usual self. Not that he didn't still look contented: he did; he looked like he had just been treated to one of the most pleasurable experiences of his life; but he had that edge back, an edge that would not let him sit back and watch Arthur doing all the work any more. He was up for some fun. He sat up. Arthur was confused, and his eyebrows said so. Ford pulled him up with him, and swung himself into Arthur's lap. His leg brushed Arthur's erection and it twitched hopefully. Arthur blinked, leaning forward to kiss Ford again, and being disappointed when Ford put his hand up and patted his lips softly with his fingers.

"Arthur," said Ford. Arthur blinked, he had forgotten about speech and coherent sentences and all that sort of thing, but Ford seemed to be gearing up for it. However, at that moment, Arthur heard a sound outside the door. Without a second's thought, he wriggled out from under Ford and waddled painfully across the room. Remembering the interruptions and impostures of the previous times, he stood by the door, and waited to see if the sound was repeated. It wasn't. He looked back at the bed. Ford was sitting almost cross-legged, elbows on his knees, looking at him,

"Arthur, what are you doing?" he asked. Arthur found the sound of his voice and the halo of tousled hair surrounding his head utterly irresistible, and practically leapt back to the bed, allowing himself to be sat on again and running his hands feverishly down the outsides of his thighs.

He was aware that Ford was running a hand down his side, plucking softly at the flesh there – flesh that was perhaps a little more fleshy than Arthur would have liked. And he didn't mind. There were lips in his ear that tickled as they spoke,

"Fancy a new pleasure?" Asked Ford in a touchingly innocent voice. Arthur nodded, not giving a second thought to his answer. As long as it kept Ford _this_ close, it didn't matter.

Ford had wiped the results of his own pleasure from his legs and stomach and was smoothing it gently over Arthur's penis, watching his face carefully for any sign that he was close to breaking the suspense. He shuffled further into his lap and pulled himself up on Arthur's neck. Arthur sighed as Ford slowly lowered himself onto him and looked rather as if he were going to cry. Ford took a careful breath and watched Arthur, a slight smile betraying a love that went deeper than he would ever admit to anyone.

"You alright, Arthur?" He asked. Arthur nodded and leaned forward for another kiss, which Ford let him have. Ford brought his legs round to kneel astride Arthur, and the extra leverage this gave him allowed him to start to move up and down on Arthur, altering his position until he found the one angle that suited him perfectly. Arthur got the idea. His hips began to move of their own accord, ignoring his brain which was telling him, quite rightly as it happened, that he wasn't going to last very long anyway, and if he wanted to draw this out at all, his best move would be to stay as still as possible. Their chests were rubbing damply together and nothing that had happened over the last couple of days seemed half as important or half as bad now. All that mattered was the tight, warm squeezing that he was receiving, and the consequent tremors and tics manifesting themselves all over him. He couldn't kiss Ford any more; he didn't trust himself not to bite and pull just as Ford had tried earlier, so he pulled his chin over Ford's shoulder and felt in wonder the ripples of hard-working muscles as Ford moved in his embrace. He threw his head back and moaned unashamedly as his hips slammed up at Ford and he fell sideways, a couple more ineffectual thrusts bringing Ford over the edge with him and leaving them clutching each other so tightly that tears ran down Arthur's Face and Ford wouldn't unstick his forehead from Arthur's shoulder.

They lay there, utterly inside each other and so tightly tangled that a knitting teacher would have had major problems unravelling them, and slowly a feeling came over Arthur and he heard a remembered line of speech in his head, it said:

"You're a jerk."

Arthur stiffened. He reluctantly unwrapped his legs and arms and torso and head from Ford, and suppressed a whimper of loss as he slid out of him. Ford's head unpeeled from Arthur's shoulder and he looked at him questioningly. Arthur tried to explain,

"I remember...someone insulted me. A man, came out of a spaceship...last time...Good grief, Ford, we did this once before. Only we didn't remember because for some reason, he wiped our memories."

* * *

A voice made its way across the universe – a voice that rumbled so low that hardly anything could hear it. It throbbed with power and bass and a certain amount of irritation. Many beings would have called it 'the voice of God', if only He hadn't been too busy trying to work out whether or not, according to the laws of logic, He could exist. Actually, the voice hadn't started off sounding quite so divine, nor was it emitted from the Godly voice-box. However, the considerable distortion acquired travelling through both time and space in one go had rendered it deep and throbbing and almost inaudible. It said: 

"Bugger."

* * *

Wowbagger the infinitely prolonged stepped off the end of his ramp, the ship parked rather badly through the _Heart of Gold_ so that he had to exit in a cleaning cupboard, and put his foot down hard on the draining section of a brand new, small, red mop bucket. He hastily lifted his foot and looked around. He checked his watch, harrumphed, and stepped back into his ship.

"Too early. What's the matter with you?" He asked the computer. The computer coughed and then whirred and beeped a little to prove it could still do the machine thing,

"I apologise for the miscalculation," it said, "It seems there was a glitch in the...time, flux...calibrations..." It didn't sound very sure of itself. What it really meant was that the _Heart of _Gold itself was such a hugely improbable ship, that arriving in it at the right time was really a stroke of luck more than anything, but Wowbagger was too preoccupied to care.

"Get me to when the memory suppression started to slip." He said. The computer wheeped and flurried for a few seconds in a convincingly time-travelling sort of way, and they clicked back into existence approximately thirty-nine hours later.

Wowbagger stuck his nose out of the hatch and listened.

"Right, thank-you." He said irritably. "I'll tell you when to re-apply it." Then he stalked off down the corridor in the way that only an irritable immortal can, and stopped outside a door, behind which low murmurs and decisive skin-on-skin noises could be heard by anyone with exceptionally good hearing. "A bit early, still, at least I can catch the exact moment this way." Muttered Wowbagger to himself. The noises behind the door stopped abruptly, there was a rustle and the arrhythmic padding of someone walking very carefully and with considerable difficulty towards the door. Wowbagger froze, there was silence, then a fast pitter-patter of feet, a bed-springy cacophony, some whispered somethings and then an unbroken crescendo of heavy-breathing, moaning triumph, silence, then a man's voice saying...'I remember...'. Wowbagger acted.

"Now." he said.

Arthur's eyes flicked uneasily back and forth across the room as he felt a worryingly familiar sensation enter his brain.

"I've felt this before. My memory is being...stolen again... Ford?" He sounded panicked. Ford grabbed him and pulled him close to him,

"I can feel it, but we zarking well won't forget. Not if we're like this, we're too close, we'll _have_ to remember." Arthur felt reassured by this, and put his arms around Ford, encircling him totally. The door opened and Zaphod stood there, looking furious.

"Right. This is the second time I've had whole parts of my day stolen since you arrived on board. I was willing to let it go last time, but it so happens that I have just had a pretty hoopy evening, and I'd like to remember it tomorrow. Or at least, if I can't remember it, I want it to be alcohol-related memory-loss, not some galactic killjoy stealing all my fun. So what didja do? Whose fault is it? And why are you hanging on to each other like that? You know Ford, I wouldn't like to say anything against you, I mean, you're a pretty froody guy most of the time, but clinging to a monkey? Well that's just weird."

Ford didn't let go of Arthur. The thoughts in his head were spinning like water down a plughole, and he felt sure the only thing keeping any of them in there at the moment was the comfortably solid body currently wrapped around him. The only thing... the... he was confused. Arthur was there, he was...where was he...where was, who? Who had he, there was someone there near Zaphod who was leaving...someone with...what did he do last night? Where was he? He had been in bed...in bed with...in bed...must have been asleep...were you?

Arthur didn't let go of Ford. The thoughts in his head were spinning like water down a plughole, and he felt sure the only thing keeping any of them in there at the moment was the deliciously smooth and friendly body currently intertwined with his own. The only thing...the...he was confused. Ford was there, he was...where was he...where was, who? Who had he, there was someone in the bed, and Zaphod was taking his hand, pulling him away from...someone...what had he been doing? Where was he? He had been in bed...in bed? No...going down a corridor, very important, that...to answer some questions...what?

Zaphod stood by the door. The thoughts in his heads were sloshing around like the contents of a very large cocktail glass. He felt sure that the only thing keeping them in there was his determination to find out what role the monkey man had played in this disastrous loss of memory for what he was now certain was the second time. He would have to get the Earthman away from Ford or he'd never get any answers. He would have to...he was confused...a wrist in his hand...a wrist, pull...down the corridor...where was I? where was I? What was I doing? What was I doing? Must have been going to bed... to bed...what's this hand here? Here? I am in my room...must be right...must be right.

The door closed and Zaphod and Arthur both fell into bed, dropping instantly into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

_Arthur Dent sat up at high speed, bashed his head on something he had a vague feeling shouldn't be there, fell back to the pillow, thought: 'I'll be late for work again', tried sitting up again, succeeded, swung his feet out of bed, and staggered towards the bathroom rubbing his eyes with his wrist. A dull 'thunk' and a very restrained and throaty 'ow' would have signified to any casual bystander that the bathroom door was not where he had expected it to be. To Arthur, it signified the beginning of a day-long headache, and the need for a reappraisal of his situation. In the darkness, he lost his balance and sat down on a floor that was not quite as warm and carpety and rather a lot more cold and metallic than he thought it should be._

_Sitting on the floor with an increasingly chilly bottom and a lump on his forehead, Arthur thought. It had been his alarm that had gone off, hadn't it? He wasn't so sure any more. 'Wait, Arthur', he thought, 'it'll all come back to you'. The unpleasant realisation soon came that no, it had not been his alarm, just a dream. That was all. A dream about being late for work, an alarm ringing and still being late. The sort of dream that can propel you to the bathroom at three a.m. and get you down the stairs and pouring the milk on your cornflakes before you realise you've been duped again._

_Arthur sighed. Alright, what time was it? How long did he have before the alarm really went off? Would it be possible to go back and have a decent night's sleep, or was it, irritatingly, about five-thirty and not worth the effort? He looked around for the glow of digital numbers and they failed to show themselves. He had obviously walked in the wrong direction, and was now out of sight of the numbers and had no idea in which direction the bed might lie. He sighed again._

_There was a sound like the grumpy harrumph of somebody who has heard a man get out of bed at three in the morning, crash into the wall, sit down hard, sigh, and then, just to make sure everyone really was awake, sigh again. Arthur froze. That sound should not be in his bedroom. Even in his seriously befuddled state he could remember that much._

_He thought again. What did one do if one heard that noise in one's bedroom? The best answer was probably 'switch on the light', but since Arthur didn't have a clue where the light switch might be lurking, he was going to have to think of something else. The next answer, in the clear light of day, would obviously be 'ask who's there'. However, in the darkness of a room that was already behaving oddly, somehow that didn't seem like a very prudent course of action. That was, in fact, the action most likely to cause swarms of terrifying monsters to come out from their hiding place under the bed, glow nastily, grab Arthur's ankles and...well, he didn't want to think about 'and'._

_If Arthur had learnt one thing from his time as a small boy, it was that the only safe place in a haunted or otherwise monster-infested room was the bed. You get in, you pull the covers right over your head, you check for air holes round the side and block them, and you wait. Eventually, when everything has quietened down and the monsters have failed to spot you through your high-tog duvet, you stick your head out, place it on the cold pillow and go swiftly back to sleep in the certain knowledge that this time you outwitted them._

_He stuck out his hand and waved it in front of him cautiously. After a few blind passes, his fingers touched the wall; it felt...unfamiliar. Nevertheless, logically, the wall must have been directly perpendicular to his line of travel, so if he walked straight away from it, he must, sooner or later, hit the bed. He got up, flattened his back against the wall, and shuffled forwards, his hands washing around at knee height. After a while, he began to feel that he must have walked right past the bed and must now be heading for the wall. Well, when he hit it he would just have to turn round and try again. He raised his hands to feel for the wall and instantly screamed in pain as his shins connected hard with the sharp metal edge of the bed-frame._

_The light snapped on and Arthur's unfocused and light-shocked eyes tried hard to stop squinting and focus on the figure that had just sat up in his bed._

* * *

"You've created a paradox." said the computer. Wowbagger drummed his fingers on the control panel as they sped away from the _Heart of Gold _once more, 

"Can I still go and reach this Arthur Dent where and when you calculated before?"

"Yes."

"Well, then I must still be outside the paradox and can therefore stop it whenever I want. Presumably in time to let him end up there. Or maybe they'll get out of it themselves. They can't keep on ending up in bed together, it's not normal." The computer gave a disbelieving sort of noise and reset the coordinates for an insignificant little blue-green planet in its prehistoric era.

* * *

**Epilogue **

_A tall figure appeared silhouetted in the hatchway. It walked down the ramp and stood in front of Arthur._

"_You're a jerk, Dent," it said simply..._

_...The alien creature frowned briefly and consulted what appeared to be some species of clipboard which he was holding in his thin and spindly alien hand._

"_Arthur Dent?" it said._

_Arthur nodded helplessly._

"_Arthur Philip Dent?" pursued the alien in a kind of efficient yap._

"_Er...er...yes...er...er," confirmed Arthur._

" _You're a jerk," repeated the alien, "a complete asshole."_

"_Er..." _

"_Don't give me that," snapped the alien. It marched up the ramp, through the hatchway and disappeared into its ship_

_(LUE Chapter 1) _

* * *

Or, in another dimension of reality... 

_**FX: Distant ethereal hum... (under following:) Wowbagger ship descends / legs unfold / touchdown. Airlock door opens and a metal ramp extends. A pair of boots descends the ramp, rather pompously...**_

_**ARTHUR (cont'd)** Good heavens...Look! Can you see what I see? All right! I know you're only a sycamore, you could at least pretend! It's a spaceship! A beautiful, gleaming, silver spaceship! No, Sycamore One, I'm not imagining it! We can escape!! At least...I can escape! I know how that must sound, Sycamore One, but your roots are here! It's landing right in front of us! I'm saved!_

_**FX: The boots stop a few yards from the foot of the ramp.**_

_**WOWBAGGER** ...Dent?_

_**ARTHUR (Expectant, desperate)** That's right. I'll just get my pouch!_

_**WOWBAGGER (Simply)** You're a jerk_

_**ARTHUR** What?_

_**WOWBAGGER** Arthur Dent? Arthur Philip Dent?_

_**ARTHUR** What is it?_

_**WOWBAGGER** You're a jerk. A complete arsehole._

_**ARTHUR** Er...er..._

_**WOWBAGGER (To himself)** Hey ho._

_**ARTHUR** But...! But...! Bu..._

_**WOWBAGGER** And stop whining, you snivelling little drip!_

_**FX: He turns and walks away. Smooth, precise sounds of spaceship closing itself up.**_

_**ARTHUR **Hey! What is this?_

_**FX: Spaceship starts to rise up into the air.**_

_**ARTHUR (cont'd)** Wait a minute! **(Screams in frustrated rage)** Come back here and say that! Who the hell do you think you are?_

_**FX: Spaceship swooshes away uncaringly.**_

_(Tertiary Phase, Episode 1)**  
**_

* * *

_A/N:__ Yes, I do feel a bit rotten about leaving him like that, but it had to be... My plotbunnies are currently mostly feeding on reviews - please be friendly and fatten one up for me!_


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